real dealings with Harris, no one seems to know about
it. The only other worker still there that had much to
do with him is Sanaugustin’s buddy Juan Santos. Both
of ’em are married. Both have kids. The farm manager,
Sid Lomax, thinks Santos and Harris might have had a
run-in last spring when he had to fly out to California
and Harris came in to run things. But that was almost a
year ago. Besides, it sounds like Harris’s real run-in was
with his wife.”
“Was he maybe trying to exercise his
with one of the migrant women?”
“What’s that?”
“The privilege of ownership.”
“Like a plantation owner with his female slaves?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, his housekeeper did say he slept with the wife
of a different worker, but they moved to the farm below
247
MARGARET MARON
Kinston months ago. I suppose he could have tried it
with one of the other women, although the housekeeper
says he was pretty much saving it for Flame Smith these
last few months.” He broke a cookie in half, dunked it
in his milk, then savored the soft sweetness. “You make
a mean cookie, Mrs. Bryant.”
“Why thank you, Major.” Then, just to make sure, I
said, “You really don’t mind that I haven’t changed my
name professionally, do you?”
He smiled and glanced at my left hand. “Not as long
as that ring stays on your finger.”
“What about Mrs. Harris?” I asked since he was in a
talkative mood. “Is she still wearing a ring?”
“Who knows? If we can’t pin down the time of death,
she may claim she’s a widow and not an ex. She’s sched-
uled to come in tomorrow morning.” He told me about
the tumble she supposedly took in a mud puddle the
Monday after Harris was last seen. “Only nobody actu-
ally saw her do it and the housekeeper says she bundled
her clothes up in a garbage bag and borrowed some of
his things to wear back to New Bern.”
“Whoa!” I said. “She came in the house and took
a shower and no one saw if it really was mud on her
clothes?”
“Mrs. Samuelson says there was no blood on her
sneakers, just a little mud. If she was going to lie for the
bosslady, why stop at sneakers?”
“Unless . . .” I said slowly.
“Unless what?”
“I keep a second pair of old shoes in the trunk of my
car,” I reminded him. “To save my good ones if it’s
