Read Online Long Upon the Land by Margaret Maron - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Margaret Maron
Ads: Link
sunglasses.
A couple of jet fighter planes suddenly appeared off to my left, coming in at such a steep angle that I gave an involuntary tap on my brakes even though reason immediately reassured me that they did not intend to crash. I’d almost forgotten that Seymour Johnson Airfield was here in Goldsboro and it set me thinking about Mother again. This was where she met that man who gave her his lighter and somehow changed her life.
Or so she’d said.
By Kinston, the NPR station from Chapel Hill had faded out and I’d had enough of the grim Middle East news and reports of a congress that only wants to block the president and further the stranglehold of the rich instead of focusing on what could help the country. I slid a new Red Clay Ramblers CD into the player and tried not to match the speed of Bland Simpson’s fingers on the keyboard. Highway 70 between Kinston and New Bern is almost a straight four-lane shoot along the border between Jones County and Craven. The speed limit is 70, but without cruise control, I’d have been ticketed many times over in the years I’ve driven this road to Harkers Island.
Harkers Island?
Combined with thoughts of Mother and anticipation of New Bern, a flashbulb went off in my head.
I had stayed on the island a few years back while holding court in Beaufort and someone invited me to a large noisy cocktail party with skeet shooting down by the water. I had spotted an old boyfriend I hadn’t seen since the winter I lived in New York, so I didn’t pay much attention to the people I was meeting for the first time. But an elderly white-haired man had given me a warm smile when we were introduced.
“Judge Knott? Colleton County? You any kin to Kezzie Knott?”
I always get that sly grin when people mention him. He’d once run a network of whiskey stills all through eastern North Carolina.
“My father,” I’d said and that had gotten me an even warmer smile.
“Married Sue Stephenson, didn’t he?”
“You knew her.”
He picked up on that past tense and a fleeting shadow crossed his still-handsome face. “We both worked at the airfield in Goldsboro during World War Two.”
I should have nailed him to the ground right then, but as I say, it was noisy and there was this guy I had unfinished business with, so I said, “Do you live here? Could I come and talk to you some time?”
“I’m just up the road in New Bern. But don’t leave it too long or I may not still be around,” he’d said.
What the devil was his name?
Adams? Ashworth? Austin?
It’s a trick a fellow judge taught me. When he can’t remember a name, he starts at A and works his way down the alphabet.
Baker? Bowman? Bradley?
I was to the L’s before I finally remembered Livingston, as in Doctor, I presume? One of the guests had even made a joke of it and he had given the pained smile of someone who’d heard that joke a million times because he was indeed a physician.
Surely I could find him if he was still alive. How many Dr. Livingstons could there be in New Bern?
The westbound lanes on 70 were thick with campers and boat trailers and people heading home after a weekend at the beach, but traffic was light in my direction. I reached New Bern and the old red brick courthouse on Broad Street in time to have another cup of coffee with Cindy Dickerson, who met me at the door. She introduced me to a Gina Cruz, who would be my clerk for the day, and Gina in turn guided me through the maze of halls and locked doors of this much-remodeled courthouse. Back of Courtroom 5 was a small office and lavatory where I put on my robe and freshened up, then Gina told the bailiff to notify the attorneys that we were ready to start.
The courtroom was a smallish nondescript chamber similar to so many others across the state. The case, a civil suit between two elderly cousins, wasn’t.
Wade Mitchell and Caleb Mitchell. Both quite wealthy. Both prominent, civic-minded businessmen who wielded enough power and
A couple of jet fighter planes suddenly appeared off to my left, coming in at such a steep angle that I gave an involuntary tap on my brakes even though reason immediately reassured me that they did not intend to crash. I’d almost forgotten that Seymour Johnson Airfield was here in Goldsboro and it set me thinking about Mother again. This was where she met that man who gave her his lighter and somehow changed her life.
Or so she’d said.
By Kinston, the NPR station from Chapel Hill had faded out and I’d had enough of the grim Middle East news and reports of a congress that only wants to block the president and further the stranglehold of the rich instead of focusing on what could help the country. I slid a new Red Clay Ramblers CD into the player and tried not to match the speed of Bland Simpson’s fingers on the keyboard. Highway 70 between Kinston and New Bern is almost a straight four-lane shoot along the border between Jones County and Craven. The speed limit is 70, but without cruise control, I’d have been ticketed many times over in the years I’ve driven this road to Harkers Island.
Harkers Island?
Combined with thoughts of Mother and anticipation of New Bern, a flashbulb went off in my head.
I had stayed on the island a few years back while holding court in Beaufort and someone invited me to a large noisy cocktail party with skeet shooting down by the water. I had spotted an old boyfriend I hadn’t seen since the winter I lived in New York, so I didn’t pay much attention to the people I was meeting for the first time. But an elderly white-haired man had given me a warm smile when we were introduced.
“Judge Knott? Colleton County? You any kin to Kezzie Knott?”
I always get that sly grin when people mention him. He’d once run a network of whiskey stills all through eastern North Carolina.
“My father,” I’d said and that had gotten me an even warmer smile.
“Married Sue Stephenson, didn’t he?”
“You knew her.”
He picked up on that past tense and a fleeting shadow crossed his still-handsome face. “We both worked at the airfield in Goldsboro during World War Two.”
I should have nailed him to the ground right then, but as I say, it was noisy and there was this guy I had unfinished business with, so I said, “Do you live here? Could I come and talk to you some time?”
“I’m just up the road in New Bern. But don’t leave it too long or I may not still be around,” he’d said.
What the devil was his name?
Adams? Ashworth? Austin?
It’s a trick a fellow judge taught me. When he can’t remember a name, he starts at A and works his way down the alphabet.
Baker? Bowman? Bradley?
I was to the L’s before I finally remembered Livingston, as in Doctor, I presume? One of the guests had even made a joke of it and he had given the pained smile of someone who’d heard that joke a million times because he was indeed a physician.
Surely I could find him if he was still alive. How many Dr. Livingstons could there be in New Bern?
The westbound lanes on 70 were thick with campers and boat trailers and people heading home after a weekend at the beach, but traffic was light in my direction. I reached New Bern and the old red brick courthouse on Broad Street in time to have another cup of coffee with Cindy Dickerson, who met me at the door. She introduced me to a Gina Cruz, who would be my clerk for the day, and Gina in turn guided me through the maze of halls and locked doors of this much-remodeled courthouse. Back of Courtroom 5 was a small office and lavatory where I put on my robe and freshened up, then Gina told the bailiff to notify the attorneys that we were ready to start.
The courtroom was a smallish nondescript chamber similar to so many others across the state. The case, a civil suit between two elderly cousins, wasn’t.
Wade Mitchell and Caleb Mitchell. Both quite wealthy. Both prominent, civic-minded businessmen who wielded enough power and
Similar Books
