Read Online Designated Daughters by Margaret Maron - Free Book Online
Authors: Margaret Maron
Ads: Link
asked, astonished. He almost never dials a number of his own volition.
“I’ll call her,” he said, and the look on his face warned me off making any smart-aleck comments.
CHAPTER
8
I never heard of an old man’s forgetting where he had buried his money.
— Cicero
W e left Cal and two of his cousins shagging flies hit by my nephew Reese, who’d assisting one of the Little League coaches this summer. This is Cal’s second summer playing in his age group and young Jake’s first year with T-ball. Mary Pat’s not sure how much she likes softball, but she won’t let the boys leave her behind and she does okay with her glove if Reese hits her easy flies.
Reese can be a feckless screw-up at times. With twenty-five in his rearview mirror and fast heading for thirty, he’s an electrician in my brother Herman’s electrical contracting business along with Annie Sue, his younger sister. Actually, Herman and Annie Sue are the licensed electricians. Reese can pull wire and put it where it needs to go, but he won’t buckle down and get his own license. He’d rather hunt and fish than crack a book. He lives in a singlewide at the backside of Seth’s place where various women come and go. Come, because he can be charming as hell. Go, because he won’t commit. He’s surprisingly good with kids, though, and always seems to find time for his younger cousins.
Rather than take two vehicles, Dwight and I drove to the courthouse in his truck. I figured that if we went together, he couldn’t decide he needed to stay in Dobbs and work, because I certainly didn’t intend to miss Cal’s game. Aunt Rachel’s death might be of personal concern to both of us, but it wasn’t the only item on his plate.
In addition to the usual petty crimes, there had been a rash of break-ins over near Black Creek, the SBI was keeping an eye on a potential meth lab, and allegations of brutality had been lodged against one of the jailors.
An unidentified male body had been found in a drainage ditch out by the interstate. His tats indicated that he’d been a member of a gang active in Baltimore, so Dwight had hopes that the Maryland State Police might take that body off his hands.
The kid who got shot in a Cotton Grove barroom brawl last night was his problem, though, and at that point, none of the customers in the bar would admit to seeing anything.
Unless time is a factor, Dwight always chooses to drive the back roads to Dobbs. Despite all the development our county’s seen these last few years, there are still plenty of open fields away from the main highway. Cat’s-ears and coreopsis were patches of bright yellow along the edges of the cultivated fields. Corn and cotton were several inches tall and someone was setting out a few last acres of tobacco plants near Pleasants Crossroads.
“You ever miss working in tobacco?” I asked Dwight.
He shook his head. “Not for one single minute. You?”
“I know I ought to say yes, but I can’t. I’m glad it’s not being raised on the farm anymore, but in a way I’m sorry Cal will grow up not knowing what it was like.”
“Because it taught us about hard work?”
“And the value of an education if you don’t plan to earn your living sweating in a hot gummy tobacco field.”
“Yeah, it did do that,” he agreed.
Where the fields hadn’t yet been planted, drifts of blue toadflax and dark red sourweed swayed in the warm breezes. Purple wisteria blossoms still twined through the pines on north-facing roadsides and as we drove into Dobbs, every yard sported masses of azaleas in reds that shaded from pale pink to deep scarlet.
“I love this time of year,” I said, drinking in all the beauty of a Carolina spring.
He smiled. “Tell me a time of year you don’t love.”
“Good news, Major,” Raeford McLamb called out to Dwight as we walked down the hallway to his office in the basement of the courthouse. “Tub found us a witness from last night’s shooting and
“I’ll call her,” he said, and the look on his face warned me off making any smart-aleck comments.
CHAPTER
8
I never heard of an old man’s forgetting where he had buried his money.
— Cicero
W e left Cal and two of his cousins shagging flies hit by my nephew Reese, who’d assisting one of the Little League coaches this summer. This is Cal’s second summer playing in his age group and young Jake’s first year with T-ball. Mary Pat’s not sure how much she likes softball, but she won’t let the boys leave her behind and she does okay with her glove if Reese hits her easy flies.
Reese can be a feckless screw-up at times. With twenty-five in his rearview mirror and fast heading for thirty, he’s an electrician in my brother Herman’s electrical contracting business along with Annie Sue, his younger sister. Actually, Herman and Annie Sue are the licensed electricians. Reese can pull wire and put it where it needs to go, but he won’t buckle down and get his own license. He’d rather hunt and fish than crack a book. He lives in a singlewide at the backside of Seth’s place where various women come and go. Come, because he can be charming as hell. Go, because he won’t commit. He’s surprisingly good with kids, though, and always seems to find time for his younger cousins.
Rather than take two vehicles, Dwight and I drove to the courthouse in his truck. I figured that if we went together, he couldn’t decide he needed to stay in Dobbs and work, because I certainly didn’t intend to miss Cal’s game. Aunt Rachel’s death might be of personal concern to both of us, but it wasn’t the only item on his plate.
In addition to the usual petty crimes, there had been a rash of break-ins over near Black Creek, the SBI was keeping an eye on a potential meth lab, and allegations of brutality had been lodged against one of the jailors.
An unidentified male body had been found in a drainage ditch out by the interstate. His tats indicated that he’d been a member of a gang active in Baltimore, so Dwight had hopes that the Maryland State Police might take that body off his hands.
The kid who got shot in a Cotton Grove barroom brawl last night was his problem, though, and at that point, none of the customers in the bar would admit to seeing anything.
Unless time is a factor, Dwight always chooses to drive the back roads to Dobbs. Despite all the development our county’s seen these last few years, there are still plenty of open fields away from the main highway. Cat’s-ears and coreopsis were patches of bright yellow along the edges of the cultivated fields. Corn and cotton were several inches tall and someone was setting out a few last acres of tobacco plants near Pleasants Crossroads.
“You ever miss working in tobacco?” I asked Dwight.
He shook his head. “Not for one single minute. You?”
“I know I ought to say yes, but I can’t. I’m glad it’s not being raised on the farm anymore, but in a way I’m sorry Cal will grow up not knowing what it was like.”
“Because it taught us about hard work?”
“And the value of an education if you don’t plan to earn your living sweating in a hot gummy tobacco field.”
“Yeah, it did do that,” he agreed.
Where the fields hadn’t yet been planted, drifts of blue toadflax and dark red sourweed swayed in the warm breezes. Purple wisteria blossoms still twined through the pines on north-facing roadsides and as we drove into Dobbs, every yard sported masses of azaleas in reds that shaded from pale pink to deep scarlet.
“I love this time of year,” I said, drinking in all the beauty of a Carolina spring.
He smiled. “Tell me a time of year you don’t love.”
“Good news, Major,” Raeford McLamb called out to Dwight as we walked down the hallway to his office in the basement of the courthouse. “Tub found us a witness from last night’s shooting and
Similar Books
