“See?” said the preacher, who’s always been embarrassed by that cynical act.
The pragmatist shrugged.
“Before it’s over, you’re going to see King and Bullock both on a statewide ballot,” said Reid. “Just remember that you heard it here first.”
“Elective office?”
“Why else do you think King’s so hot to marry one of the homeliest gals that ever wore lipstick? Because she’s connected on both sides of her family to some political heavy hitters, that’s why. And in this state, you still need a ladywife to do the whole white-glove bit. If Lynn Bullock threatened to make a scandal, she could’ve scared the little debutante off. Soured things with her daddy the Justice.”
His venom surprised me. “What’s Millard King ever done to you?”
“Nothing really. Just sometimes I get a shade tired of the deserving poor.”
“Come again?”
“All these up-by-their-bootstrap people, who keep reminding you that you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth while they had to work for everything they got,” he said scornfully. “As if you’re worth shit because your parents and your grandparents could read and write, while they’re the true yeoman nobility who really deserve it. And all the time they’re sneering, they’re out there busting their balls to have what they think you’re born to. As if money’s all it takes.”
“Why, Reid Stephenson! You really are a snob.”
“If not apologizing for who and what my parents are and what they gave me makes me a snob, then guilty as charged,” he said as his scowl dissolved into one of those roguish smiles. “But I’m not guilty of murder.”
“You’re the one without an alibi though.”
I drained the last of my coffee and as he took my mug to pour me another cup of the rich dark brew, we mulled over the other men known to be in Lynn Bullock’s life.
“She died between five-fifteen and eight, give or take a few minutes,” I said. “Dwight and I got to the ball field around four-thirty. Jason Bullock was right behind me when she called at five and after the game, he went straight from the field to the pizza place with us. We even followed him back to Cotton Grove.”
“He may be out of it,” said Reid, “but what about Millard King?”
“He told Dwight that he was there jogging for at least an hour, but I didn’t notice him till he was coming off the track around six o’clock. I suppose he could have cut through the trees and jogged over from the Orchid Motel. It’s on this side of the bypass and less than a quarter-mile as the crow flies.”
“Or the jogger jogs,” said Reid, brightening up a bit.
“Courthouse gossip says that she was with Brandon Frazier for a while.”
“Yeah, I heard that, too, but so what? Frazier doesn’t have a wife or anybody special and he doesn’t act like someone planning to run for political office.”
“Frazier and King. Not much of a pool,” I observed.
“And neither of them threatened to wring her neck,” Reid said glumly. “There has to be somebody else, somebody we haven’t heard about yet.”
“Maybe we’re going at this the wrong way,” I said. “Maybe it’s not who she slept with, but who she didn’t. Like Dr. Jeremy Potts.”
“Who?”
So I told him about young Dr. Potts, who would have walked away from his marriage with no strings attached to his income had it not been for Lynn Bullock’s shrewd advice to his wife and Jason Bullock’s equally shrewd representation.
“Oh, yeah, I heard about that. A professional degree as marital property. Good thing I made Dotty settle out of court.”
(Tough talk, but Dotty herself told me that Reid was voluntarily paying twenty percent of his income for young Tip’s support.
(“I’m socking it all away in mutual funds for his education,” she’d said complacently.
(Like most hotshot real estate agents in this part of the state, Dotty’s doing very well for herself these days.)
“Did you hear that she’s getting married again?” Reid asked abruptly.
“Who? Felicia Potts?”
“Dotty.”
Most of the time, Reid kept the torch he carried for his ex-wife well hidden under his Casanova cloak, but every once in a while, I caught a glimpse of it. She was the love of his life and he’d screwed it up by screwing around.
I reached out and squeezed his arm. “Maybe I’ll call Amy,” I said, offering what comfort I could. “See if she’s heard anything about Dr. Potts.”
* * *
Against my better judgment and only because it would be his word against mine if this ever came to Dwight’s attention, it seemed I had agreed to keep quiet about my pen for the time being.
And now, God help me, I was even volunteering to ask a few questions on my own. And yeah, part of it might be to help Reid, but part of my very nature is a basic need to find the truth and bring the facts to judgment.
My internal preacher was not fooled by such high-flown rationalizations.
“You’d risk your career for curiosity? Curiosity killed the cat.”
“But no cat ever caught a rat without it,” said the pragmatist.
CHAPTER | 13
The people of the North might differ radically from the people of the South in many ways, but in the presence of such a dreadful visitation of nature, involving suffering and death, the brotherhood of man asserts itself and all things else are forgotten.
After Reid left, I watched the late news. The situation in Iraq might be occupying the rest of the country’s TV screens, but here in central North Carolina, most of the newscast was given over to Hurricane Fran which seemed to be heading straight toward Wilmington. It was packing winds of 130 miles per hour and forecasters were saying it could push in a wall of water twenty feet high. The sheer size of the storm—more than five hundred miles across—guaranteed that we were going to feel its effects here in the Triangle.
All along the coast, people were nailing sheets of plywood over their windows and getting their boats out of the water. Portland and Avery were congratulating themselves for bringing their boat back to Dobbs.
Skycams showed us thick lines of headlights heading inland through the rainy night as coastal residents from Myrtle Beach to Manteo sought higher ground. Channel 11’s Miriam Thomas and Larry Stogner spoke of ordered evacuations in both South Carolina and Ocracoke, which is linked to the mainland only by ferries. New Hanover County had ordered a voluntary evacuation of all beach communities, including Wrightsville Beach where some of my Wilmington colleagues live; while Brunswick County was taking no chances. Evacuation was mandatory on all the barrier islands.
Reporter Greg Barnes showed motels filling up fast and shelters that were opening in schools and fire stations around Fayetteville to help handle the evacuees.
Even Don Ross, WTVD’s color man, was unusually serious as he reported on local grocery stores that were already experiencing a run on batteries and canned goods. Eric Curry’s camera panned over empty bread shelves and depleted milk cases.
I tried to call Kidd, but all I got was his answering machine.
It was nearly midnight but I wasn’t a bit sleepy. Instead, I switched off the television and roamed around the house restlessly. I had candles and a stash of batteries for my radio, a half a loaf of bread and a fresh quart of milk. I should be okay, but the dire predictions left me uneasy.
The rain had finally stopped and I went out to put all the porch and lawn chairs into my garage. The night should have been quiet except for frogs and crickets, yet male voices floated faintly on the soggy warm air and sirens seemed to be converging from different directions. I was about to get my car out and go see what was happening, when headlights appeared on the lane that runs from Andrew’s house to mine and connects with a homemade bridge across Possum Creek.