“Yes, ma’am.”
As Barefoot moved away to speak to his men, Hobbs said, “You wanted to ask me about something, Dwight?”
“Actually, I’m here to talk to Mr. Barefoot,” Dwight said, turning to follow the roofer, “but it’s been good to see you again. Hope y’all have a nice Christmas.”
“You, too,” they said and went to help the woodcutter clear away some of the smaller branches.
“Did you say you wanted to see me?” the roofer asked, pausing until Dwight caught up with him.
Before Dwight could reply, the shriek of the chainsaw split the air again and Barefoot motioned for Dwight to follow him around to the back of the house where they could hear each other’s words.
They sat down on a low brick wall that edged the rear terrace. Barefoot pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered it to Dwight, who shook his head.
“Never picked up the habit?” the older man asked. “Good for you. I’ve tried to quit a hundred times and just can’t seem to do it.”
He took his time lighting the cigarette with an old-fashioned kitchen match. As the smell of sulphur and tobacco smoke drifted between them, he looked Dwight up and down. “I heard you were back and working for the sheriff.”
“Eight years now,” Dwight agreed.
“That long?” He inhaled deeply and let out a thin stream of smoke. “Heard, too, that you married Kezzie Knott’s daughter.”
“Yes, sir.”
Barefoot took another slow drag on his cigarette. “Been a long time since you and Jeff played ball together. You still have that hook shot?”
Dwight smiled and shook his head. “Don’t have much time for that anymore.”
“Too bad. I guess you know about Jeff?”
“Yes, sir. I was real sorry. Must have been rough on you and Mrs. Barefoot.”
“And Sarah. Been thinking about her a lot this week. Losing Jeff and now losing her daughter like that.”
“They say her son’s changed his name back to Barefoot.”
“Yeah, that made Edie and me real happy. Lots of Barefoots in the county but I’m the only son of an only son and our line of Barefoots would’ve died out if Charlie had stayed a Johnson. What’s particularly good is that Sarah didn’t try to talk him out of it. I think she knows she made a mistake all those years ago when she let Malcolm Johnson have his way.”
“Sounds like you don’t care much for Malcolm,” Dwight said mildly. “Wasn’t he good to Charlie?”
“He didn’t beat the boy or let him go hungry or naked,” Nelson Barefoot said. “All the same, Charlie’s living with Edie and me now till he finishes school.” He sat with his arms on his knees and watched the ash on his cigarette grow until it fell to the ground. “But you didn’t come here to talk about Charlie or Malcolm either, did you?”
“No, sir. I was wondering what you could tell me about one of your workers. Jason Wentworth?”
“Wentworth?” Barefoot gave a scornful snort. “He doesn’t work for
When Dwight told him, Nelson Barefoot shook his head grimly. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe if I’d got him a little earlier…? It didn’t have to be like that, did it, Dwight?”
“I guess we all make choices, sir. Can you think why anyone would shoot him down?”
Barefoot frowned, stubbed out his cigarette, dug a shallow hole with the heel of his work boot, and carefully buried the butt. “Sorry, son, but I never get into the personal lives of my men unless I’m invited, and Jason Wentworth didn’t send out any invitations. I didn’t even know he had a brother. Least not a younger one.”
Dwight thanked him and walked past the dismembered oak tree to his truck. As he reached for the door, he heard Diane Hobbs call to him above the noisy chainsaw. “Dwight! Wait a minute!”
She carried a clear plastic pint-sized box tied with silver ribbons. “Am I not right in thinking today or tomorrow’s your anniversary?”
He nodded. “Today, actually.”
The Hobbses had come to the dinner party Bo Poole had thrown for them last December and to the wedding as well.
She thrust the box into his hands. “These are some of my chocolate-covered fried pecans. I was going to say merry Christmas, but happy anniversary’s even better. I hope you’re taking Deborah somewhere fancy tonight?”
“Tomorrow’s our fancy night,” he said. “There’s a dinner dance out at the country club.”
She beamed. “Y’all’re going to that? We are, too! Now you be sure and save a dance for me.”
Although it was now heading for lunchtime, another quick call to Spivey’s Plumbing confirmed that Mr. Spivey was still working on some busted water lines out at the nursery where Dwight had bought twenty crepe myrtles back last spring.
