As McLamb drove, Richards called Jamison and told him to ask about a Darla-last-name-unknown.
“Long as we’re out this way, let’s stop by the Harper woman’s house and see if she’s remembered anything else.”
In Cotton Grove, Jack Jamison felt as if he were batting 0 for 3. The first suspect seemed genuinely surprised that anyone would think he’d shot a man simply because of a barroom brawl that happened over a month ago.
“Hell, it was Christmas. The holidays. Everybody was drinking too much. Yeah, me and J.D. mixed it up a little out in the parking lot, but we was both so drunk, falling on our faces did more damage than our fists. I chipped a tooth when I hit the concrete. Cost me four 12 hundred dollars by the time the dentist got through with me.”
He was more interested in talking about that tooth than any grudge he might have been carrying for Rouse, but he did furnish the full name of the woman—Darla Overholt.
So where was he Thursday evening?
“Driving back from High Point with my boss. We got in around seven. Here, I’ll give you his number.”
The second suspect was helping a friend change the carburetor in his truck. He freely admitted he wasn’t sorry to hear Rouse was dead, and no, he didn’t have a real good alibi. “Darla Overholt? Yeah, she lives down near Makely. Comes up this way to do her playing. Too close to Fort Bragg the other way.”
His friend came out from under the hood with a big grin on his face. “You say Rouse was shot? From
Jamison found their third suspect at a fund-raising fish fry outside the fellowship hall of a local church.
Boiling grease bubbled in one of the portable vats as the man dropped in battered catfish fillets one by one, then scooped crisp hushpuppies from an adjacent vat into a large colander. The air was redolent with the smell of fish and hot cornbread.
“I was at a planning session for today,” he told Jamison as he dumped the hushpuppies into a metal tray that one of the kitchen helpers took over to the serving line. An awed look spread over his face. “I never fried fish for a church before and I didn’t really want to do it this time, but my wife talked me into it. She said it would prove a blessing to me. Well, damned if it didn’t, right?”
As they neared Rideout Road, Richards recognized the name on a street sign as being the same as the address for Orchard Range and quickly told McLamb to turn onto it.
The development consisted of large boxy houses nearing completion. From a cursory drive through, it looked as if all that was lacking was the installation of appliances and the usual minimal landscaping. The berms that gave a semblance of privacy from passing traffic and the newly planted entranceway were both getting a thick mulch of pine straw from the Diaz y Garcia Landscaping crew. Indeed, Miguel Diaz himself had arrived and was standing by his truck when the two detectives got back to the entrance. He was talking to an older white man whose own truck bore the logo of the consortium that owned this development.
When introduced, the man confirmed that he had indeed spoken with Garcia on Thursday, although he did not think it was as late as Diaz had led them to believe.
“It was probably only around five because the sun was still up when I left,” he said. “I remember ’cause it was right in my eyes but too low for the visor to do any good.”
Richards felt Diaz’s eyes on her, challenging her. Confused, she avoided his gaze and pointed to the woods that lay on the far end of the development. “What’s on the other side of those trees?”
“Over yonder?” asked the man. “That would be Rideout Road.”
Mrs. Harper had just given her corgi a bath when the two detectives rang her bell. She met them at the door with the wet dog wrapped in a towel and invited them to come in while she finished drying it off.
They sat in the living room and she held the dog on her lap to dry between its toes.
“Are you any nearer to learning who did that awful thing?” she asked, moving on to the little dog’s ears.
“We have a few leads,” Richards told her, “but we were hoping you might have remembered something more that might help us. For instance, did any vehicles pass you going the other way just before he was shot?”
Mrs. Harper shook her head. “Not that I noticed. I’m sorry. I’m afraid I get quite single-minded when I’m out there. I’m only looking for the next bottle or can or scrap of paper.”
“It’s really nice of you to do the whole road all by yourself,” said McLamb.
She shrugged away his praise. “It’s barely a mile and it’s the least I can do to honor my father.”
“Is that him?” asked Richards, glancing at the portrait over the couch.
The older woman nodded and her face softened as she, too, looked at the man in uniform. “The Colonel was such a good person. Kind and considerate of everyone.
He was the one who actually started trying to keep the road clean. I never had his patience. ‘Why bother?’ I’d ask him. ‘You know some slob’s going to trash it again.’ He said it gave him something to do while I was at work.
Said it was giving a little something back to the world.”
“You must miss him a lot,” said Richards.
“It’ll be three years on Monday since he died,” she said simply. “As soon as I took early retirement, I knew this is what he would want me to do.”
“Getting back to Thursday night,” said McLamb, “did you happen to notice the time of the shot?”
Again the woman shook her head. “I wasn’t wearing a watch.”
The dog yawned and curled up on the towel and fell asleep in her lap. “Poor Dixie! Baths just wear her out.”
