ain’t-no-racists-here protestations, which was all they were getting on tape.
Dwight Bryant, the deputy sheriff I’ve known since I was in diapers, had a sour look on his face when he stopped past the broom closet that serves as my bare-basics office when I’m sitting court in Dobbs. “Ed Gardner’s looking for you.”
I didn’t play innocent. Ed used to be part of the Friday night crowd at Miss Molly’s on South Wilmington Street when Terry Wilson and I were hanging together three or four years ago. Terry’s State Bureau of Investigation; Ed’s federal: Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. These days, “Firearms” includes any incendiary device that results in an explosion or a fire. Colleton County’s old rundown tobacco warehouses have a bad habit of catching fire in the middle of the night around here, so we get to see a little more of Ed than other folks might.
“I’m always happy to talk to him,” I said, “but don’t you and Bo want to know what I saw, too?”
He shrugged unhappily and I almost got up to pat his shoulder like one of my brothers when they were down. In age, Dwight’s somewhere between Will and the little twins and might as well have been another brother, since he hung out with them so much. Kidd Chapin may be a hair taller, but Dwight’s more muscular and solid, like my brothers by Daddy’s first wife. At times I feel as protective of him as if he really was one of my brothers.
“A little territorial infighting going on here?” I asked sympathetically.
“Aw, you know how it is. The Feds are polite, but they don’t think we know squat. And I’m stuck hanging around, waiting for Buster Cavanaugh to get here and ride out there with me,” He gave a rueful grin. “ ’Course, old Buster now, he don’t know squat.”
Fire Marshall in Colleton County’s always been more of an honorary term than a working title and Buster probably knows less about an arson investigation than I do. But he was connected to a couple of the county commissioners and he’d have his nose out of joint if he didn’t get included in the day’s festivities. He never misses a chance to slap that magnetic Fire Marshall sign onto the side of his car and turn on his flashing red light.
Absently, I touched the little blisters scattered on my forearm.
“Hurt much?” Dwight asked.
I shook my head and pulled the sleeve of my robe. “Looks worse than it is. At least my hair doesn’t still smell like singed chicken feathers.”
I hear Mr. Kezzie wasn’t real happy about you running into that church last night for a handful of cardboard fans.”
“I saved more than fans,” I said indignantly. “I brought out the pulpit Bible and—”
Dwight’s lips were twitching. Done it to me again.
I let him laugh, then said, “Be better if you’d heard who did it.”
According to my watch, court was due to convene in two minutes and, as I stood up, Dwight turned serious. “Look like arson to you?”
“ ’Fraid so. When I got inside, the worst was over in the corner where the electric wires came in, but one of the pews in the middle of the room was burning, too, and it was nowhere near a wire.”
Dwight opened the door for me and walked me down the hall. “You reckon it really was a hate burning or just kids fooling around?”
“Who knows?” I paused at the door to my courtroom. “But it sure did look a lot like what was done out at the Crocker cemetery—green paint, block printing, swastikas. I’m no handwriting expert though. You need to get Cyl DeGraffenried to show you the Polaroids.”
“You saying A.K.’s involved in this?”
“A.K. didn’t do any spray-painting at the cemetery,” I said firmly. “Andrew and April both say he was home last night and I didn’t see either of his friends. Besides, don’t arsonists usually like to hang around and watch their handiwork?”
“I heard that Starling’s a racist.”
“But why would he take his anger out on a church?”
“Because it’s at Starling’s Crossroads? And he already used green paint one time this week, right?”
I nodded glumly. “But it still might just be a coincidence.”
Dwight pushed open the courtroom door and stood back for me to enter.
? ? ?
“All rise,” said the bailiff as soon as he caught sight of me.
“Oyez, oyez, oyez. This honorable court for the County of Colleton is now open and sitting for the dispatch of its business. God save the state and this honorable court, the Honorable Judge Deborah Knott presiding. Be seated.”
Normally Cyl DeGraffenried is already standing when I walk in. Today, the bailiff was halfway through his spiel before the words seemed to register enough to bring her to her feet. Reid was defending a young Hispanic for possession of marijuana and when he requested that the case be thrown out because of sloppy police mistakes with the search warrant, her opposing argument was so unfocussed that I granted Reid’s request and dismissed the charges.
Cyl didn’t even shrug, just called the next case in an absentminded voice. We were almost to the midmorning recess before she got herself up to speed. By noon, she was again demanding heads on a silver salver but somehow her heart didn’t seem to be in it.
“Left it a little late, ain’t you?” asked Leamon Webb, who runs the Print Place down from the courthouse in Dobbs, when I stopped in on my noon recess. “Judge Longmire had his campaign stuff printed up in February.”
“That’s because he had a challenger in the May primary,” I said, feeling a little testy.
I told myself it was still only June. Plenty of time till the November election and it’s not like I have any serious competition this year. (
