He spotted the plumber’s truck parked beside an empty greenhouse and pulled his own truck up next to it. Inside, he found two men repairing a network of thin black plastic pipes that lay on the ground in an inch or so of muddy water.
“My stupidity,” Herman Forrest told Dwight. “The main water supply comes in here and then feeds to the other greenhouses. I’ve never insulated the pipes here because I’ve never let the temperature drop below fifty, but with the slowdown in the building trade and fewer big landscaping orders, I left these two houses empty and never once thought about them freezing till I noticed that the sprinklers and misters in the other houses weren’t working.”
Dwight commiserated with him, but before he could explain why he was there, the nurseryman said, “So. You here to start redeeming your gift certificate?”
“My what?”
Consternation flooded the man’s face like the water on the dirt floor of this greenhouse. “Oh, Lord! Please, Major Bryant. Forget you heard me say that.”
With a broad smile, Dwight said, “I’m getting a gift certificate for Christmas?”
“When I saw you drive up, I was sure that your wife gave it to you already and that you were here to pick out another tree or something.”
Still smiling, Dwight shook his head.
“Look, promise you won’t tell her I shot off my big mouth, please?”
“She’ll never hear it from me.”
“So how can I help you? I don’t suppose you came to get
“No, I want to talk to Mr. Spivey, but as long as I’m here, maybe I’ll take a look around later and see what you’ve got blooming besides poinsettias.”
“Sorry, Major. This time of year, it’s all poinsettias.”
Although he had continued to work while Dwight and the nurseryman talked, the plumber, a short burly man of late middle age, had obviously been listening; and when Forrest walked away, he stood up and wiped his hands on a muddy rag. “Oren Spivey,” he said. “I’d offer to shake hands but then you’d have to go wash yours.”
“Major Bryant, Mr. Spivey. Sheriff’s department. Sorry to interrupt your work.”
“ ’Sokay.” He turned and gave his assistant some instructions, then led the way through the greenhouse and out into the sunshine. “You’d never know it was freezing last night, would you? This is what I love about North Carolina.”
“You’re not from here?” Dwight asked politely even though the man’s accent had given him away as soon as he opened his mouth to speak.
“Michigan. Been here twelve years and I’m never going back.” He gestured toward the mess of mud and pipes visible through the open door. “In there’s a piece of cake compared to crawling under houses in minus-five-degree weather, using blowtorches to thaw a line that’s buried a foot deep in frozen mud. So how can I help you, Major?”
“I was wondering what you could tell me about one of your workers. Willie Faison?”
“Willie? He’s been with me about a year now. Hard worker. Reliable. At least he was reliable till this morning. First time he’s missed without calling in.”
“Part of that’s my fault,” Dwight said and told him how Faison had discovered the bodies of the two Wentworths and then wound up drinking himself into oblivion. “See, the thing is, their stepmother thought they went hunting with Faison one day last week. You remember what day that was?”
Spivey frowned. Sunshine fell full of his broad square face and he squinted when he looked up at Dwight. “Sorry, Major Bryant. Somebody’s got their times mixed up. Willie put in a full eight hours every day last week.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
Dwight thanked him and walked slowly back to his truck, trying to reason it out. It would appear that Faison had told the truth when he said he did not go hunting with the Wentworths on Wednesday. Dwight had interviewed enough young men like Faison to have a pretty good sense of when they were lying. He was quite certain that something about that Wednesday deer hunt was a lie.
But what?
The deer stand?
Trespassing to hunt on posted land?
CHAPTER 18
—
Court for me that Monday morning meant handling first appearances for those who had been arrested over the weekend. State law requires that they be brought before a district court judge within ninety-six hours. The jury box held today’s first group of orange jumpsuits. All of them male. All charged with felonies.
I smiled at them pleasantly.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” I said. “My name is Judge Knott. If this is your first time here, let me explain that this is not a trial court. You have the right to silence, and it’s not in your interest to talk about the facts right now with the DA sitting there. If you go to trial, that’s when you’ll get a chance to be heard. This session is designed to review your bond, to tell you what you’re charged with, and to inform you as to what your punishment can be. This does not mean that’s the punishment you’ll actually receive. That will be determined if you do wind up going to trial after talking to your attorney and if you are found guilty there. When your name is called, please step forward. I’ll
