More clapping.
“They’s too many preachers here today for us to favor one over the other,” Daddy said slyly, “so I’m gonna ask Judge Luther Parker to say grace.”
Luther had evidently been primed, for he did ask God’s help during these trying times and he did commend the soul of Arthur Hunt to God’s mercy. Then he gave thanks for the day’s fellowship and concluded by asking “that Thou bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies and our souls to Thy service. Amen.”
Hearty amens echoed his and soon double lines were passing down both sides of the serving tables where Minnie stood with a watchful eye, calling for fresh bowls of coleslaw or more hushpuppies as the baskets got low.
When I stopped to see if she needed any help, she had an infectious smile on her face. “Don’t you just love watching people?”
“Who?”
“Second table on the left. Don’t stare. Clifford Gevirtz and Alison Lazarus. He’s wearing a yellow shirt, she’s got on a blue dress. I said don’t stare.”
The woman looked vaguely familiar but I didn’t recognize the man and certainly neither of them had Colleton County names.
“Who’re Clifford Gevirtz and Alison Lazarus?”
“He’s the new large-animal vet.”
“The one that pulled Silver Dollar through colic this spring?”
Minnie nodded. “And she directs the literacy program here in the county. I introduced them last week and now here they are together. Don’t they make a nice couple?”
“Matchmaking again, Minnie?”
“Well, why not? They’re both from New York and they’re both single and he’s the best horse doctor we’ve had in a long time. And married men are more likely to stay put than bachelors. I do wish we could find somebody for Dwight Bryant.”
Dwight was going through the line just then with a tow-headed little boy in front of him.
“Hey, Cal,” I called. “When’d you get down?”
“Hey, Miss Deborah!” A snaggle-toothed grin lit up his face. “My daddy came and got me last night.”
Dwight’s son and ex-wife lived in the western part of Virginia, a good five-hour drive away the way Dwight drives, but that doesn’t stop him from making the trip whenever Jonna will let him have Cal for the weekend.
I broke line for a crisp hot hushpuppy and munched my way through hungry ranks to the table occupied by some of the courthouse crowd, including Cyl DeGraffenried, who didn’t look overjoyed to be here. Clerk of Court Ellis Glover stood up with a half-eaten ear of corn in his hand and tried to give me his seat, but I motioned him back down and perched on the edge of my cousin Reid’s chair as they hashed over the week’s events yet again.
“—only thing saving us from the media sticking a microphone in our face every minute is no decent hotels out in the country,” said Sheriff Bo Poole. “Keeps ’em in Raleigh.” He sprinkled a few drops of Texas Pete hot sauce over his barbecue. “Keeps ’em there at night, anyhow.”
“That and the quick arrest,” said Magistrate Gwen Utley, blotting her lips with a paper napkin. “Knowing who did it takes the air out of their stories.”
Reid was representing the Bagwell boy. He said nothing.
“You
“Hard to make a man plead guilty when he knows he didn’t do it,” said Reid.
“Yeah?” said Currin. “I heard they took a handwriting sample and Starling’s printing matches what’s on the church.”
“Starling’s not my client,” Reid said.
“But your client says they were together that night,” said Portland Brewer, and she reminded Reid of a story that had appeared in the paper only yesterday.
A reporter had gone back and researched the sale of Starling land some twenty-two years earlier, at least two years before Charles Starling was even born, to what became Balm of Gilead Church. He had spoken to contemporaries of Starling’s grandfather, Leon, and he had pieced together a portrait of a hot-tempered alcoholic who used to run up huge tabs at various shot houses around the county. In less than fifteen years, the man literally drank up an inheritance of thirty-two acres and a crossroads country store back when you could still buy a farm for another four hundred dollars an acre.
Last to go was the land around the crossroads itself even though the store had been closed for several years. A devout black carpenter named Augustus Saunders had held the note on it for longer than any white bank would have, and when old Leon said he could have it for another five hundred dollars to finance what turned out to be his last alcoholic binge before his liver failed, Saunders took him up on it.
The store became a church and now the church was selling that parcel for almost a quarter-million. More than once in the past month, since word of the sale began leaking out, Charles Starling had been heard to curse Balm of Gilead and to swear that “a nigger stole my granddaddy’s land for five gallons of white lightning” and “I’m owed, ain’t I?” along with several other incendiary remarks.
Reid just shrugged. “I don’t represent Charles Starling and my client had no grudge against any of those churches.”
“Yes, but Bagwell—”
“Wait a minute—”
