The Buzzard Table (5 page)

“Thank you, Mr. Harper,” Reid said. “If it pleases the court, Your Honor, my client will change his plea from not guilty to guilty with extenuating circumstances.”

I looked at Claudia, who said, “One question, if I may, Your Honor?”

“Proceed,” I told her.

“Mr. Harper, you talk about citizenship and taxpayers. May I ask how much tax you paid to the IRS last year?”

Now it was Harper’s turn for a red face, but he jutted out his chin and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Nothing,” he said pugnaciously. “I’m a high school student. The only job I can find doesn’t pay enough to let me help pay your salary.”

“No further questions,” Claudia said.

“You may step down,” I told Harper.

When Reid said he had no further witnesses, I looked at Claudia. “What’s the State asking, Ms. O’Hale?”

Several of her male relatives are in the National Guard and she doesn’t have much tolerance for civil disobedience where the military is concerned. She suggested some jail time and an injunction against the young man ever stepping onto the airfield again.

“Mr. Stephenson?”

“Your Honor, as you know, Mrs. Bryant is the principal at West Colleton High School. Before you pass sentence, she’d like to speak on his behalf.”

Dwight’s mother stood up and placed her hands on the rail between her and the defense table. Mid-sixties now, her once fiery red hair has softened into a rusty white, but her commitment to her students still blazes brightly. She described how young Jeremy Harper had entered her school as a freshman with a chip on both shoulders. His parents were in the middle of a bitter divorce, their house was in foreclosure, and as if this weren’t enough, the older brother he idolized was killed in Iraq before midterm exams. He came very close to flunking out.

“When his brother’s effects were sent home, though, they included a good digital camera, and that camera saved him.”

She said the yearbook’s faculty advisor saw some of the pictures he took over the following summer and invited him to join the staff if he could get his grades up. “Last year, we won an honorable mention from the American Scholastic Press Association and they cited the photographs for their excellence.”

I glanced at the clock on the wall above the jury box. It was somewhat past my usual time to recess for lunch. Miss Emily followed my eyes. “I’ll get to the point, Debor— I mean, Your Honor. As you know, Anne Harald is a Pulitzer Prize winner. She’s seen Jeremy’s photographs and she thinks he has a genuine talent. She’s willing to give him pointers about getting good pictures that tell the story without violating legal and journalistic protocols.”

She paused and looked up at the man on her left. “Richard?”

Reid cleared his throat. “Mr. Williams would like to add to that, Your Honor.”

As Miss Emily sat down and Richard Williams stood, I said, “Mr. Williams?” and tried very hard not to beam back at him, but he has one of the most infectious smiles of anyone I’ve ever met. His hazel eyes twinkled behind his glasses, and when he beetled his thick white eyebrows at me, I almost lost it. I knew that if I asked him how he was, he’d say, “Awesome! Absolutely awesome!” and we’d be off and running.

A large tall man of late middle age, his soft white hair was retreating toward the crown of his head. He wore pleated gray slacks and a navy windbreaker that carried the logo of a Methodist youth camp.

Unlike most denominations, Methodists are required to bring in a new head minister every three or four years. I suppose it’s an attempt to keep their churches from forming cliques and splitting up every six or seven years the way the Baptists seem to do every time half the congregation starts to feel that the minister is listening only to the other half. But Richard has been youth minister at the Methodist church here in Dobbs for as long as I could remember. Not that I was ever anything other than a visitor there when invited to attend an event by some of my friends. I was brought up Southern Baptist and have never seen a reason to convert to something else.

I wasn’t quite sure what Richard Williams, who lives and works in Dobbs, would have to do with Jeremy Harper, who attends the high school out near Cotton Grove, twenty-odd miles away.

“Jeremy’s grandparents are members of our congregation, so I’ve known him since he was born,” Richard said. “And now that he and his mother are living with them—”

He didn’t have to explain further. The Cotton Grove house must have gone down the same drain as the parents’ marriage.

“Jeremy’s keeping up his grades and he works weekends at Burger King. I’ve been trying to counsel him about the best way to channel his peace efforts, but I don’t know anything about photojournalism, so when Mrs. Bryant called and told me about Mrs. Harald’s generous offer, it occurred to me that between us we could come up with something meaningful for him to do to fulfill the community service hours you’re going to give him.”

I did have to smile at that. “And just how do you know I’d planned to give him community service instead of jail time?”

He beamed back at me. “Because you’re a kind person,” he said. “Besides, you’ve had nephews who’ve had trouble with the law and you’ve seen the difference between meaningful service and jail time that doesn’t teach them anything.”

“And you think you and Mrs. Harald can design a program that will let him accomplish something more significant than spending a hundred hours picking up trash from our roadsides?”

“Absolutely!”

“Very well,” I said. “Mr. Harper, I sentence you to three days in the county jail, the sentence to be suspended on condition that you not trespass on the Colleton County Airport property and that you complete seventy-two hours of community service as designed by Mr. Williams and Mrs. Harald, subject to the approval of this court.”

Before I could bring down my gavel, Richard said, “What about court costs, Your Honor?”

I sighed. A recent statute requires us to make a special finding before we waive the court costs, but a student with a limited income certainly qualifies.

“Court costs waived,” I said, making the appropriate notation on the form in front of me. “This court will be in adjournment until two o’clock.”

Major Dwight Bryant—
Wednesday morning, February 9

T
he skies had finally cleared and bright winter sunlight flooded through the tall windows of the family room, making the bloodstain on the end of the floral patterned couch look like a misplaced bunch of darker roses that had trailed down onto the sand-colored carpet. Dwight Bryant stood in the archway with the owner of Coyne Realty and watched while Percy Denning, who headed the department’s crime scene team, finished going over the area inch by inch. They could hear voices echoing through the empty rooms as other officers dusted for fingerprints on doorknobs and handles.

“I know you went over everything with the officers last night,” Dwight said, “but I’d appreciate it if you would take us through it again this morning.”

“It’s Becca Jowett’s blood, isn’t it?” Ms. Coyne asked. She had stressed the
Miz
in a businesslike tone when they met, then smiled. “Or you can just call me Paula.”

Late fifties, with a tipped-up Irish nose and a body kept taut by daily horseback rides, the real estate agent normally had an easy laugh. She was not laughing now.

“It’s too soon to tell,” Dwight said. “All we can say for sure is that it’s human.”

“O-positive?”

“Is that her blood type?”

Paula Coyne nodded. “We give to the Red Cross every two months. I’m A-positive and she’s O. It
is
Becca’s blood, isn’t it?”

“Now, Ms. Coyne—”

“And she’s still missing. As soon as I saw that stain, I was afraid we were going to find her stuffed in one of the closets.”

“How long has Mrs. Jowett worked for you?”

“Six years. She was my last hire before the market topped out, but she busted her britches to help some of our low-end clients find affordable homes when the others on my staff were coasting with the free spenders, so she’s the one I kept on even though things have slowed so much now that I could pretty much handle the sales by myself. We only represent buyers, not sellers, but it’s been a pretty lean time for the whole industry.”

Holding her thumb and index fingers almost touching, Ms. Coyne said, “Becca was that close to selling this house. It’s been on the market for almost a year, waiting for the bank to set a realistic price. As soon as it dropped into their price range in January, she called the Todds. They signed the due diligence agreement the very next day and put down earnest money. Everything’s been done—the repairs and the inspections—and they were due to close tomorrow.

“When we didn’t hear from Becca, I stepped in to cover—did a walk-through in the morning to familiarize myself with the property and made sure that everything was in order for the closing. The Todds called back last night, though, and wanted to take one more look upstairs even though they were legally committed. Now?” She sighed. “Mrs. Todd doesn’t want to have anything to do with this house even if it means losing their earnest money, and I can’t really fault them, even though this is their dream house. Closer to her parents, a better school for their children.”

A sturdy young woman in dark slacks, white shirt, low heels, and a windbreaker with CCSD for Colleton County Sheriff’s Department stenciled on the front and back came through from the rear of the house and Dwight motioned for her to join them. Deputy Mayleen Richards had been one of the responders last night and she nodded to the agent, who gave the cinnamon-haired detective a wan smile of recognition.

“Ms. Coyne’s telling me about last night,” Dwight said.

The older woman shook her head. “There’s really nothing more to tell. I got here just as the Todds were pulling into the driveway, about ten-thirty.”

“A little late to be showing a place, wasn’t it?”

“
And
it was pouring rain, but this is a step up for them and they were understandably a little nervous about taking on that much debt. Certainly she was. Two of the bedrooms upstairs have sloping dormer ceilings and she wanted to measure the height, see if their daughter’s canopy bed would fit. We had started up the stairs when her husband said something about getting the bank to throw in the couch, and that’s how we found the bloodstain.”

Dwight raised a dubious eyebrow. “He wanted the couch?”

Ms. Coyne smiled. “Looks a little girly with those roses, doesn’t it? But it’s well built and Mr. Todd liked the length. He’s tall as you are.”

“So the first time you saw the blood was when she came in and moved the afghan?”

She frowned. “Actually, I believe he was the one who pulled it off because it was a different shade of red from the roses.”

Dwight looked at Richards for confirmation. The deputy shook her head. “All I know is that Mrs. Todd said that they were taking a closer look to see if the couch would match their other furniture when they saw the blood.”

“You didn’t notice it when you were here earlier in the day?”

“No.” Ms. Coyne pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from her coat pocket and held the pack briefly to her nose. “You ever smoke, Major Bryant?”

Dwight shook his head. “The surgeon general didn’t have to tell me about tobacco tar. I stayed covered in that sticky black stuff every summer.”

“Unfortunately, there were no tobacco farms in Pittsburgh where I grew up,” she said and ruefully crammed the cigarettes back into her pocket. “As I said, I did a walk-through yesterday morning after Mr. Todd called me Monday afternoon. They hadn’t heard from Becca since their last time here Saturday morning. She’s usually off on Mondays and her grandmother hasn’t been well lately, so I thought maybe she’d run down to New Bern to check on her. But then her husband called to ask if I’d seen her. I guess that’s when he reported her missing?”

Dwight nodded. “So yesterday morning was your first time in this house?”

“That’s right. The Todds were Becca’s clients, so normally I wouldn’t have anything to do with the sale.”

Dwight glanced through the notes he’d made on his pad. “Last night, Mrs. Todd told Detective Richards here that Mrs. Jowett first showed them the house in mid-January and they put in an offer on the twenty-fourth. She said they were here several times since then and that the afghan was slung over the white chair each time. The last time was around noon on Saturday. Where was it when you did your walk-through on Monday?”

Ms. Coyne’s forehead creased in thought and a faraway look shadowed her eyes as she concentrated. “I’m almost certain it was draped over the end of the couch and trailed onto the floor very casually. I thought it was a nice touch.”

“You told the officers that the door was locked and we’ve found no signs of a forced entry. Who else would have keys?”

She gestured toward the front door. “There’s usually a key box hanging on the front doorknob, and you can get the letter combination to open it from the listing agent. Cubby Lee Honeycutt has an exclusive on this property and his locks are usually set to CLH. But once the Todds started the due diligence process, no other agent would show the house.”

“So far as you know?”

“True. And any agent who knows Cubby Lee would also know the combination. We’re supposed to ask him before we take someone through, but he’s pretty loosey-goosey about it. He’d rather we show his properties to someone on the spur of the moment than risk losing a sale.”

“Do you know if Becca showed the house to anyone else?”

“I’d have to check her records, but I’m pretty sure that she didn’t. And certainly not since the Todds put in their offer.”

“What about the Todds? Was your agency the only one representing them?”

“We’d better be. They’ve signed an agreement to that effect. We put in too much time and effort to have clients jumping from one agency to another. Becca’s been working with the Todds for almost two months now. This was one of the first houses they looked at, because it met most of the features on their wish list and she was pretty sure the bank would eventually drop the price again. She helped them find financing and she even lined up the inspector after the bank did the repairs. Mr. Todd already did a termite check himself last Tuesday.”

“The Todds own a pest control business,” Richards murmured.

“Did Mrs. Jowett have any problems with the Todds?” Dwight asked.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“What about her personal life? Any problems there?”

Ms. Coyne shook her head. “I never get into an employee’s private life and Becca isn’t one to share intimate details anyhow. I’ve only met her husband twice in passing.”

She hesitated.

“Something?” Dwight prompted.

“It may be my imagination, but in the last few weeks, she’s dropped a few disparaging remarks about him, almost as if she’s quit considering him whenever she decides to work weekends or evening.”

“Well, I certainly don’t mean to be the one to gossip,” Ms. Coyne’s secretary told Mayleen Richards an hour later, “but I’m pretty sure they have separate bedrooms. Last week I was complaining about how my husband’s snoring was keeping me awake at night and she said I ought to do like she did and move him into the guest room.”

“Any new man in her life?” Richards asked.

The secretary shook her head. “Not that I’ve heard, but she really doesn’t talk about her private life much at all. Not to me anyhow.”

Following up on the bit of gossip Judge Knott had passed on to Major Bryant, Richards’s next stop was at the Cut ’n’ Curl, which was where she got her own hair done. She was directed to Charlaine Schulz, the woman who did Rebecca Jowett’s hair and who had the station next to Mayleen’s own beautician.

“She was in here just this past Wednesday to get her split ends trimmed and have her roots touched up,” Charlaine told her. “Not that she has any gray—she’s only thirty-four—but her natural color’s a mousy brown, so the roots need regular work.”

In the picture Dave Jowett had given them when he reported her missing on Monday, Becca Jowett had brown eyes and long dark brown hair that fell in loose swirls around an attractive oval face.

“When I washed her hair, I saw she had a fresh hickey right about here.” Charlaine had beautiful skin that seemed to glow from within as she touched a spot on her smooth neck halfway between her left ear and her collarbone. “She wasn’t happy about it either when I started to tease her. I said, ‘I guess he likes to mark his territory, huh?’ and she made a face and said, ‘First and last time. From now on, this territory’s off-limits to him.’”

“Was she talking about her husband?”

“What do you think, honey?”

“Do you know who the man was?”

Charlaine shook her head. “She never names names.”

“But she does talk about men she’s been with?”

“Not in so many words. Just enough to let me know she’s been cheating on poor Dave for two or three years now.”

“You know him?”

“Oh sure. We were in school together.”

“Does he know about her cheating?”

“Not from me he doesn’t. I did ask her last year if she was going to leave him and she just laughed and said she couldn’t afford to as long as the real estate market was so bad.” The hairdresser paused. “You know, though, she did say that it looked like things might have bottomed out and be ready to take an upswing, so it wouldn’t have surprised me if they’d split up in the next few months. What do you think, Mayleen? You reckon she’s still alive?”

They were finished with the house by noon. The only additional bit of information gained was from scuff marks and light scratches where something heavy had been pulled across the newly refinished wood floor of the living room from the couch to the front door.

“Probably the body wrapped in a tarp or something,” Denning said.

From there to the driveway, a driveway screened by two large fir trees and several tall azalea bushes, was only a few steps.

A second canvass of the neighborhood added nothing to their knowledge of what had happened there Saturday night, which was the last time anyone could definitely say they had seen Rebecca Jowett. That particular someone lived directly across the street and had a clear view when the light went on over the Jowetts’ front door around seven that evening. He had seen Becca Jowett come out, zip up her jacket, and adjust her earmuffs against the chill winter air, then watched as she used the porch railing to do a few leg stretches before she sprinted down the street and out of sight.

“Sounds like he takes a right neighborly interest in her,” Sheriff Bo Poole told Dwight when they met for lunch. He waved aside the menu the waitress offered and said, “Just bring me a bowl of chili and a glass of sweet tea, please.”

“Same here,” Dwight said. “Only make mine coffee instead of tea.”

He drained the glass of ice water in front of him before telling his boss, “Yeah, McLamb said he admitted man-to-man that she turned him on.”

“But?”

“It’s Colonel Gessner, Bo.”

“Oh,” said the sheriff, and there-but-for-the-grace-of-God was in that one syllable. Three days before that Marine officer was due to rotate home from Afghanistan, he had caught a sniper bullet in his lower spine.

“What about the blood on that couch? You gonna ask for a DNA test?”

Dwight shook his head. “Waste of money right now, wouldn’t you say? It’s the same blood type as the missing woman. Denning says that it’s so deep into the couch padding that she probably bled out right there and the cotton sucked it up like a sponge. He doesn’t think anyone could have lost that much blood and still be alive.”

Their chili arrived and both men crumbled packets of crackers into the steaming bowls before digging in.

“Denning found semen stains on the couch, too,” Dwight said, “but no point in asking for the test till we find a body or can link someone to the scene. For what it’s worth, he thinks one stain is somewhat older than the other and that the fresher one’s no more than a week old. The components haven’t broken down much. I’ve got McLamb chasing down the origin of the couch. Cubby Lee borrows things from a store out on the bypass whenever he needs to stage a house.”