Death's Half Acre

“Nope. But at least it cuts down on what we have to go through. Anything she kept must have significance to her, so keep an eye out for any personal papers.”

At the other end of the house were two more bedrooms, one of which finally had a lived-in look. From the clothes strewn across the unmade bed and on the floor, this had to be the daughter’s. A sloppy daughter’s, thought Richards. Her own mother would never have let her leave her room like this.

Immediately, her mind shied away from thoughts of her mother. Things were so strained between them these days that they had not spoken in weeks. Her family could not accept that she loved a Latino and had given her a him-or-us ultimatum. Mike Diaz kept reassuring her that all would be fine once they were actually married and the babies started coming. “If the president of the USA can accept some ‘little brown ones’ in his family, your family will, too, mi querida. You’ll see.”

Reminding herself that Major Bryant had warned her about letting her personal life interfere with her work, she willed herself to stop thinking about the conflicting loyalties that were tearing her apart and to concentrate on the job at hand.

This third bedroom had been furnished as a home office. Or rather, thought Richards as she paused in the doorway to get an overall impression, it was furnished as someone’s idea of what a home office should look like. Except for bathrooms and kitchen, the entire house was carpeted in an off-white wall-to-wall Berber. In this room, a pseudo-Oriental rug with a dusty rose background lay atop that. White enameled bookshelves bloomed with a collection of porcelain flowers. No books. In a niche below the shelves, a three-story dollhouse built to look like an antebellum plantation faced outward. Complete with white columns and tiny pots of artificial flowers on the porch, it sat on casters and rolled out smoothly when Richards touched it. Instead of having period furniture, though, the interior rooms were all modern.

She pushed it back into place and turned her attention to the adult toys. A thin laptop computer sat on the pullout counter of a cherry table desk beneath a window swathed in dark rose drapes and sheer white under- curtains. A flower-sprigged mug that held scissors, a silver letter opener, and an assortment of colorful pens sat next to the laptop between a bottle of rose-tinted nail polish and a porcelain angel with bowed head. A locked three-drawer file cabinet beside the desk was also made of cherry. A vanity wall above the cabinet had been hung with a few plaques and awards from local civic groups. Several silver-framed photographs of Candace Bradshaw with various elected men sat atop the cabinet itself. No other women in the pictures. No picture of her daughter or ex-husband.

A sturdily built five-foot-ten redhead with freckled face and arms and a slight unease whenever surrounded by so much blatant femininity, Richards doubted that much real work was done here. Nevertheless, it was a place to start collecting names. When the SBI reinforcements arrived, they would take a stethoscope and tongue depressor to this room and to the computer, but it wouldn’t hurt for a CCSD deputy to check it out first.

She selected a likely candidate from the key ring found in Bradshaw’s purse, unlocked the cabinet on her first try, and opened the top drawer. This seemed to be general storage for her supplies: extra printer paper, ink cartridges, and other odds and ends.

The middle drawer held neatly labeled hanging files and was apparently devoted to Bradshaw’s work as a county commissioner. In addition to the minutes of the meetings and various reports, there seemed to be a file on each of her fellow commissioners, past and present. She picked one at random—Harvey Underwood. “VP at the bank. Approved B’s loan w/o proper collateral. [fd] Wife, Leila. Two daughters in Raleigh. G’children. Drives late- model Lincolns. Doesn’t drink or smoke. Sleeping with B, but I could prob. have him. Registered Repub, but can’t be trusted to vote the right way.”

There followed a list of issues that had come before the board and whether Underwood had voted with her or on the opposing side.

So she kept score, thought Richards and a hasty flip through the other files confirmed it. There was a running tally on how each board member had voted since she became chair last year. The two Democrats on the board did not receive flattering comments. Jamie Jacobson seemed to be a particularly sharp burr under Bradshaw’s saddle and the dead woman had quoted some of the other woman’s comments with childish petulance, adding exclamation points and heavy underlining. The word bitch had been doodled in the margin.

She pulled a folder for Lee, Stephenson and Knott, the law firm where Major Bryant’s wife had practiced before she became a judge. It held a few newspaper clippings of a case John Claude Lee had won in a civil suit that involved a farmer’s defense of his land when the state tried to condemn it for an exit ramp to I-40. There was also a sheet of paper with Lee’s name and that of Greg Turner, an attorney from Makely. That sheet bore the same [fd] notation she had spotted in Underwood’s file.

[fd]? File drawer?

Maybe she meant a computer file, Richards decided, and switched on the laptop. While she waited for it to load, she looked through the bottom drawer, which was labeled PERSONAL. Here were Bradshaw’s insurance policies, bank and medical records, tax returns, and a thick folder tabbed SEPARATION AGREEMENT.

Separation?

“I thought the Bradshaws were divorced,” she told Dalton when he came to report that he’d found nothing of apparent interest in the rest of the house.

Dwight and SBI Special Agent Terry Wilson arrived at Bradshaw Management shortly after lunch to find Cameron Bradshaw seated behind the desk in Candace Bradshaw’s office. He acknowledged them by holding up a finger to indicate that he would be with them in a minute.

According to the report, Candace had been forty-two and folks said her husband was nearly twenty-five years older. Dwight knew him by sight, although they had never interacted in the eight years he had been back in Colleton County. With that wrinkled face, white hair, and liver-splotched hands, Bradshaw did indeed look to be in his late sixties, but he seemed fit enough and his voice was vigorous as he said, “. . . taking it hard, but Dee’s stronger than she looks . . . Thanks, Tom. And you be sure to tell Mary how much we appreciated that chicken salad she brought over last night, you hear?”

No sooner had he hung up than the phone rang again. “Sorry,” he told them, then lifting his voice, called, “Gracie?”

The brightly dressed middle-aged office manager who had shown them in came to the door. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry, Gracie, but could you take all my calls? Tell people I appreciate their concern, but . . .”

“Sure thing, boss,” she said with a solicitous smile.