Shooting at Loons

“Everybody knows them. They’ve never showed up in my courtroom yet. Probably just a matter of time. Although, to give the devil his due, they’re both brilliant woodworkers, even if they are morally retarded. Mickey Mantle did some cabinet work for us last fall. Long as we could keep him sober...”

“Yeah. It wasn’t Mahlon, though, because he was home in bed. But that reminds me. Before I leave this time, I need to speak to somebody in Social Services about his grandson Guthrie. I want to know if Mahlon treats him too rough.”

“That’d be Shelby Spivey. And she probably already has a file started on him if he lives with Mahlon.”

I made a note of the name and number, as Chet glanced at his watch and stood to go to his courtroom.

“What happened to you?” I said, noticing how he favored his right leg.

“Pulled a muscle when I jogged up for my paper this morning.” He grinned. “We’re the walking wounded, aren’t we, girl? I’ll be finished by mid-morning, so in case I don’t see you ‘fore you leave—” He gave me a warm hug. “Drive careful and come back real soon, you hear?”

“Thanks, Chet. Say ’bye to Barbara Jean for me. I hope it all works out about the fishery.”

•      •      •

Chet may have been finished by mid-morning, but I wasn’t far behind. When the last judgment had been rendered and the last paper signed, I stopped by the Clerk of Court’s office to thank her for her courtesies and to see if there were any last-minute details I’d missed before I left.

Darlene Leonard laughed as I entered. “Well, speak of the Devil and up she jumps!”

“Somebody been taking my name in vain?” I asked.

She said she’d just hung up from talking to the chief district court judge and he’d spoken to my chief, who said, and I quote: “We’ll bring Harrison Hobart out of retirement to handle Judge Knott’s schedule here next week, so, yes, you can keep her an extra week.”

Just like that. Not “Do you want to?” Not “Would you mind?”

“What’d you do to tick off F Roger Longmire?” asked the pragmatist, who usually kept track of where I stood with my district’s chief judge.

“It must have been that smartass remark you made about his brown shoes last week,” said the preacher. “One of these days you’re gonna learn—”

Before I could work up a good head of steam, Darlene Leonard said, “Judge Longmire sent word for you to get a good rest and enjoy the beach next week. He said you’ve earned it.”

So much for pragmatism and preaching.

With the folders Jay Hadley had given me still uppermost in my mind, I asked, “You knew Andy Bynum, didn’t you?”

“I knew who he was,” she answered, “but I can’t say I really knew him.”

“Someone said he’d been digging through some old deeds and such. Would you have helped him?”

“No, that would have been over at the Register of Deeds,” she said and gave me directions to the office.

There, a helpful young clerk remembered Andy clearly. “Sure, Mr. Bynum was in and out almost every day right up till about a week before he was killed. Wasn’t it just awful? He was such a nice man.”

She had no idea what he was after specifically, “But he started with a piece of property Mrs. Pope had acquired over on Harkers Island last month and pulled most everything he could find on Pope Properties, right back to when she handled the sale of the Ritchie House.”

“Which piece of Harkers Island property?” I asked.

She very nicely pulled out the right deed book on her first try. As I’d suspected, it was the land adjacent to Chet and Barbara Jean’s daughter, formerly owned by one Gilbert Epson. So Andy had known about the sale at least a week before Linville told Barbara Jean.

Interesting, but what was the significance?

“Mr. Bynum wanted photocopies of everything,” said the clerk. “Want me to make you a copy, too?”

I thanked her but declined the offer. No point duplicating what I already had. And it looked like I’d have a nice quiet weekend to finish reading the rest of the stack.

I commandeered an unoccupied phone and left a message on Aunt Zell’s machine as to why I wouldn’t be home that weekend. I’ve had my own set of rooms in Aunt Zell and Uncle Ash’s house since Mother died; and although I come and go freely, I do try to let her know my general plans. It tickles me that a childless, un-employed woman nearing seventy is so actively in her world that she needs an answering machine.

Next I called Social Services and got through to the Shelby Spivey Chet had mentioned. She sighed when I told her who I was and why I was calling.

“I know it probably seems bad to you, Judge Knott, but we are monitoring that situation. I did the initial field investigation on that child myself, and if it’ll make you feel any better, I do believe that his grandfather really loves him. Most of the time, he’s patient. He’s teaching him how to fish and build boats, the boy does attend school and all his physical needs are being met.”

She sighed again in my ear. “There doesn’t seem to be any systematic violence, but according to the neighbors, Mr. Davis does lose it about three or four times a year and then he hauls off and smacks whoever’s closest that can’t hit back. The trouble is, the child’s old enough now to testify, but he won’t. And neither will his grandmother, so our hands are pretty much tied. Unless you’d be willing to attest that you’ve witnessed incidents of abuse yourself?”

I had to admit that I hadn’t. All I had were suspicions.

We agreed that it was a hell of way to protect our young.