“A Rhode Island Red named Maisie Lou,” I told him.
CHAPTER 5
I got to Will’s warehouse on the west side of Dobbs a few minutes past noon. It’s an old brick building with its own scruffy charm, sort of like Will himself, although Amy—she’s his third wife—has done what she could with both of them. Like the wisteria vine she planted in front of the warehouse, a vine that now grows lushly across the whole front right up to the roof and blossoms with great purple clusters, she’s given Will the freedom to be himself.
Growing up, his nickname in the family was Won’t and not only because it’s an easy pun on Will Knott. Our mother was a Stephenson and while Stephensons are quick to anger, quick to tears, quick to forgive, Will was hardheaded as well, always ready to strike out across the field rather than plow a straight furrow, no matter what the consequences.
To the dismay of his first two wives, he was constitutionally unable to hold down a nine-to-five job for longer than six months. We’ve lost count of how many different things he tried before he finally stumbled into auctioneering, which combines a certain amount of risk, ever-changing novelty, freedom to stick his nose into interesting places, and the possibility of big profits.
Amy’s the director of human resources out at the hospital and it’s her job that provides medical insurance, buys groceries, and pays their day-to-day bills. Will’s earnings are more erratic, but they probably come close to matching hers on a year-to-year reckoning.
He doesn’t keep regular hours at his warehouse. Instead, he roams the state as a freelance auctioneer. Your mother’s left you a houseful of furniture? Will can come and advise you on whether to hold an estate sale or offer it to an antiques dealer. Even after his commission, a well-advertised sale will usually net you more than a straight cash offer from a dealer.
He doesn’t have any training in appraisals, but he does have a good eye for what’s quality and what should probably go to a flea market. During the year, the owners will often give him whatever doesn’t sell—the odd lamps, tables, mule collars, or mismatched dishes—and he sticks it in his warehouse. Then, twice a year, he holds his own auction. When Dwight was furnishing his bachelor apartment after his divorce from Jonna, he got a box of decent tableware and glasses at one of Will’s sales for ten dollars.
His spring sale was coming up at the end of the month, so the warehouse was fairly cluttered when I walked in.
“Will?” I called.
“Down here, Deb’rah.”
I followed the sound of his voice back to where he was trying to inventory what was to go into that sale.
A very pretty young woman was perched on a nearby stool. A laptop was balanced atop a file cabinet and she seemed to be taking dictation from him.
“Number 238,” he said, hefting a gloomy-looking portrait in a gilded frame. “The Reverend Jacob Saunders.”
He looked at a Post-it note on the back. “Native of Colleton County, 1899 to 1980.”
The girl’s slender fingers darted over the keyboard. “Nineteen-eighty. Got it.”
“Saunders,” I said, trying to see a likeness in that grim, unsmiling face. “Any kin to Fred?”
“His granddaddy. Scared the shit out of Fred and his brothers when they were kids. None of ’em want his picture hanging in their house. Nice frame though. You know Dee Bradshaw?”
I took a second look at the girl. Cute, long brown hair, green eyes, short legs? Yes, this could be Candace Bradshaw’s daughter.
“I don’t believe so.”
“I know you, though,” she said with a friendly smile. “You gave my boyfriend a prayer for judgment when he got caught for speeding last month.”
“I did?”
“Yeah. He’s kept it on cruise control ever since.”
Will glanced at his watch. “We’ll break for lunch now, Dee. Back at one?”
“Sure thing,” she said. “Nice meeting you, Judge Knott.”
Will watched appreciatively as she threaded her way through a maze of straight-back wooden chairs, her shapely hips swinging provocatively in her tight jeans.
“Quit it,” I said.
“What?” He tried to look innocent, then gave a sheepish grin. “I’m allowed to look. Amy doesn’t care if I look.”
“She’s young enough to be your granddaughter.”
“Go to hell!” he said indignantly. “She’s almost twenty-two.”
“How long’s she been working for you?”
“I only hired her yesterday. Nobody else answered my want ad for some temporary clerical work.” He peered at the computer screen. “At least she can spell.”
“So where are those folders? I have to be back at the courthouse in an hour.”
