Home Fires

Dwight wasn’t as obliging. He was off duty, he said. He had some fresh tomatoes from his mother’s garden and was about to make himself a killer BLT as soon as the bacon thawed enough to prise off a few slices and no, running halfway across the county on a spur-of-the-moment whim wasn’t how he’d planned to spend his evening, thank you very much.

I waited him out, then told him that if he didn’t want to come, I’d call Ed Gardner. Let Ed get all the glory. Let the Ledger and the News and Observer make what they would of the fact that Colleton County couldn’t take care of its own problems but had to have the Feds solve it for them while its chief of detectives stayed home to fix himself a tomato sandwich.

“Okay, okay! I’m on my way. Meet you at the firehouse in twenty-five minutes.”

“Don’t forget to get a search warrant from the magistrate,” I said.

“Tell me again what we’re looking for and where you think we’ll find it?”

“Well, I’m not completely sure,” I admitted, “but you should recognize it when you see it, and as for where—” I quickly listed some general areas.

It was actually closer to thirty-five minutes before Dwight rolled up at the firehouse. Unless he’s expediting—blue lights flashing, siren howling—Dwight’s one of the slowest drivers I know.

While I waited, the volunteer on duty, a recent transplant from Rochester, gave me the fifty-cent tour and I was shamed into writing a check for their fund toward a new fire truck. I looked at the large recycling bin for collecting white office paper and no, he told me, he’d never seen anybody rummaging through it, but that wasn’t to say they couldn’t.

I casually dropped Donny Turner’s name into the conversation and that got me a glowing account of young Turner’s tireless dedication. “Donny checks by here almost every night, even when he’s not on call. He’s up for Volunteer of the Year again this year.”

We still had two good hours of daylight left when Dwight finally pulled in beside my car. He was followed by a patrol car with officers Jack Jamison and Mayleen Richards.

“I figure if I’m gonna search, I might as well have some help.”

We drove in tandem out to the King homeplace.

Grace King Avery was watering her collection of flowering baskets on the screened back porch when our three cars came to a stop on her newly graveled driveway. She wore her usual cotton shirtdress—this one was pink—and her gray hair was tied back in a black ribbon. It was the first time I’d ever seen her without a bun. Retirement must be making her lax, I thought.

The white dog came to the screen door, nudged it open with his head and stood on the doorstep barking loudly.

“Smudge! Stop that this minute,” she scolded.

Dogs are amenable. He stopped barking and began wagging his tail instead.

“Come in, come in,” Mrs. Avery said, holding open the screen door and looking askance at the two uniformed officers behind me. “Is something wrong, Deborah?”

I murmured inconsequentially and introduced Jamison and Richards. Dwight she had met before.

“Oh, but where are my manners? Please! Do have a seat.”

The house stood in a grove of ancient oak trees, some of them eight or ten feet in circumference and more than seventy feet tall. Despite the heat, the open porch was cool and shady. We had our choice of porch swing, rocking chairs or Adirondack chairs, all freshly painted in that notorious green enamel.

Since it was my idea, Dwight thought I should be the one to speak, so when she asked if this was an official visit, I said, “I’m afraid so. You see, Mrs. Avery, when Mount Olive’s sexton died in that fire, the arson stopped being a simple felony and became a capital offense.”

“Capital?” She sank down in the rocker next to mine and looked at me, appalled. Smudge pricked up his ears and came to stand by her chair as if to comfort her. “You mean that Raymond could be put to death?”

“If he and Starling were found guilty, yes.”

“But surely they didn’t intend for anyone to die. I’m positive they didn’t know that poor man was there.”

“Intent doesn’t matter, ma’am,” Dwight said. “Anybody who sets fire to a dwelling—”

Mrs. Avery was shaking her head. “It was a church!”

“It was also Arthur Hunt’s dwelling,” I said gently, suddenly feeling like a Judas. “He lived in that room at the back.”

“So even if they didn’t know it was a dwelling, they’re still liable,” Dwight said inexorably.

“But all the evidence isn’t in place,” I told her, “and that’s why we’ve come. Raymond Bagwell has been working for you how long?”

“I didn’t move back here until I retired in May, but I’d hired Raymond, let me think… in March, it was. Yes, because I had him paint my bedroom before I came. And he’s been working on the grounds. I wish you could remember what the flower gardens were like when my mother was alive. It’s slow work bringing them back to life, but Raymond’s been such a good hard worker.”

She turned abruptly to Dwight. “Are you absolutely sure he’s really involved? Maybe it was just the Starling boy alone. Isn’t there some way to tell who did the spray-painting? Compare their handwriting or something?”

“They were together both nights,” Dwight said. “They alibi each other.”

“Oh.” She took a deep breath and sank back in her chair in resignation. “You asked how long he’s worked for me? Almost five months. And occasional jobs for my brother before that, of course. My brother died last November, you remember, and that’s when the house and land passed to me.”

“And Raymond had access to every part of it?”