Monica Udell’s skin was the color of wild honey. Her straight brown hair was cut in a no-nonsense bob. A wisp of bangs brushed her forehead. She wore black slacks and a white shirt layered over a red-checked shirt. No jewelry except for a wedding band and a modest diamond on her left hand.
She described how her two acres were all that were left of her grandfather’s farm. “You divide the land four or five times every generation and not much is left,” she said. “One of my sisters still lives next door, but the others sold out to Crescent Ridge. I’ve tried to be a good neighbor to these new folks, but I like eggs that have some color to their yolks and aren’t full of hormones and stuff and I don’t plan to quit just because city’s come to the country.”
She admitted that her chickens had originally strayed over to the newcomers’ yards, “but as soon as they asked me to keep them penned, I did. And when she put the law on me about my rooster, I made a big pot of pastry out of him rather than have hard feelings with her. Once in a while, one would fly over the fence in the morning and head straight for her yard. But her dog was over at my place more than my chickens were over there, worrying around the pen like he hadn’t never seen a chicken before. When she complained to me the last time, I quit letting them out in the morning, just in the evening right before dark. They don’t get far from their roost when night’s coming on. And I clipped the left wing of all five of ’em as any fool can see if they look at that picture of poor Bella laying there dead. So if she says that chicken flew over her hedge, she’s just pure-out lying. There’s never been a chicken hatched that can fly on just one set of wing feathers. Her dog came in my yard and killed my chicken right where it had every right to be, and yeah, I might’ve hit her first, but I do believe she was asking for it when she came over yelling and cussing me out because I was about to shoot me a chicken-killing dog.”
Reid immediately asked to see the picture again and his client’s blue eyes widened when she saw the closely clipped feathers on the dead chicken’s left wing and comprehended the significance. She whispered something to him and he stood. “Your Honor, about my client’s testimony . . .”
“About her perjury, Mr. Stephenson?”
“My client would like to correct her earlier misstatement.”
“I’m sure she would,” I said crisply, “but I’ve let this drag on too long as it is. Perjury is a Class F felony, Mrs. Arnfeldt, and I could send you to jail for thirteen months. Or, I could cite you for contempt, which carries ten days in jail.”
She gave an audible gasp and clutched Reid’s arm.
“But I’m going to overlook it this time.” Before she could quit looking worried, I continued, “On the other hand, because you did lie to this court, I’m going to accept that Mrs. Udell’s is the truthful account and that your dog did go into her yard and kill her chicken. I’m ordering you to keep your dog on a leash when it’s outside or else strengthen the charge on your invisible fence. If she had shot your dog, how much compensation would you have asked for?”
She balked at that. “My dog has papers.”
“If you’re going to live in the country,” I said, “then you need to know that some chickens have pedigrees, too, and a lot of them are pets with personalities as individual as dogs or cats. I’m entering a judgment of three hundred dollars against you for the death of the chicken, payable to Mrs. Udell.
“As to the assault and battery, I find you each guilty as charged and sentence you to ten days in jail, suspended for one year, unsupervised probation, on condition that you each pay a hundred-dollar fine and court costs, and that you neither threaten nor assault each other during that year or you will go to jail.”
It did not immediately register with either woman that Mrs. Arnfeldt was going to be out at least five hundred dollars while Mrs. Udell would break even, assuming her attorney didn’t bill too many hours.
With an amused nod of his head, George Francisco said, “Thank you, Your Honor.”
He started to follow his client out but I motioned for him to come up to the bench. As Kevin Foster looked through his shucks before calling the next case, I leaned forward and said, “Did you have a pet chicken when you were a kid?”
He smiled. “A white silkie. Her name was Blossom. You?”
“A Rhode Island Red named Maisie Lou,” I told him.
CHAPTER 5
The relating debris scatters enough tiny reckonings to force off a Remembrance of tomorrows . . .
—Paul’s Hill, by Shelby Stephenson
I got to Will’s warehouse on the west side of Dobbs a few minutes past noon. It’s an old brick building with its own scruffy charm, sort of like Will himself, although Amy—she’s his third wife—has done what she could with both of them. Like the wisteria vine she planted in front of the warehouse, a vine that now grows lushly across the whole front right up to the roof and blossoms with great purple clusters, she’s given Will the freedom to be himself.
Growing up, his nickname in the family was Won’t and not only because it’s an easy pun on Will Knott. Our mother was a Stephenson and while Stephensons are quick to anger, quick to tears, quick to forgive, Will was hardheaded as well, always ready to strike out across the field rather than plow a straight furrow, no matter what the consequences.
To the dismay of his first two wives, he was constitutionally unable to hold down a nine-to-five job for longer than six months. We’ve lost count of how many different things he tried before he finally stumbled into auctioneering, which combines a certain amount of risk, ever-changing novelty, freedom to stick his nose into interesting places, and the possibility of big profits.
Amy’s the director of human resources out at the hospital and it’s her job that provides medical insurance, buys groceries, and pays their day-to-day bills. Will’s earnings are more erratic, but they probably come close to matching hers on a year-to-year reckoning.
He doesn’t keep regular hours at his warehouse. Instead, he roams the state as a freelance auctioneer. Your mother’s left you a houseful of furniture? Will can come and advise you on whether to hold an estate sale or offer it to an antiques dealer. Even after his commission, a well-advertised sale will usually net you more than a straight cash offer from a dealer.
He doesn’t have any training in appraisals, but he does have a good eye for what’s quality and what should probably go to a flea market. During the year, the owners will often give him whatever doesn’t sell—the odd lamps, tables, mule collars, or mismatched dishes—and he sticks it in his warehouse. Then, twice a year, he holds his own auction. When Dwight was furnishing his bachelor apartment after his divorce from Jonna, he got a box of decent tableware and glasses at one of Will’s sales for ten dollars.
His spring sale was coming up at the end of the month, so the warehouse was fairly cluttered when I walked in.
“Will?” I called.
“Down here, Deb’rah.”
I followed the sound of his voice back to where he was trying to inventory what was to go into that sale.
A very pretty young woman was perched on a nearby stool. A laptop was balanced atop a file cabinet and she seemed to be taking dictation from him.
“Number 238,” he said, hefting a gloomy-looking portrait in a gilded frame. “The Reverend Jacob Saunders.”
He looked at a Post-it note on the back. “Native of Colleton County, 1899 to 1980.”
The girl’s slender fingers darted over the keyboard. “Nineteen-eighty. Got it.”
“Saunders,” I said, trying to see a likeness in that grim, unsmiling face. “Any kin to Fred?”
“His granddaddy. Scared the shit out of Fred and his brothers when they were kids. None of ’em want his picture hanging in their house. Nice frame though. You know Dee Bradshaw?”