Part 7 (1/2)

He handed over a one-page statement which I read and signed.

”Any progress on finding Andy's killer?” I asked, using the prerogative of position to interrupt his environmental monologue. ”Or why he was killed?”

Quig Smith shook his head. ”We keep asking around, of course, trying to piece together who else was out there around midday.”

”That's when he was killed?”

”Between twelve and one, looks like, according to stomach contents. He had a c.o.ke and Nabs at Cab's around ten-thirty or eleven. They say he made a phone call and kept checking his watch before he left. We reckon if he went straight from the store, he was probably out on the shoal by noon. Jay Hadley saw him there around twelve-thirty. After that-” He shrugged.

”Trouble is, it was Sunday. Lot of fishermen go to church, lot of sportsmen-strangers-head out through the channel that n.o.body ever saw before. And most people that live down here and have a boat, they'd have their own landing to go and come from.”

”What about motive?”

”Most people don't get to be sixty without making a few enemies,” Smith said vaguely.

”Was it something to do with his fish house, or because of the Alliance? Or was it personal?” I persisted.

Smith rubbed his chin. ”Well, you know, Judge, down here, messing with a man's living's about as personal as messing with his wife.”

”And you don't plan to tell me a d.a.m.n thing, do you?”

I smiled to show I wasn't taking it personally and he rubbed his chin some more, then said, ”We got somebody to come out with a underwater metal detector after you and Jay Hadley left.”

”Oh?”

”Well, I got to thinking how you said you and the Davis boy turned the body straight over without s.h.i.+fting it. So, figuring he fell straight forward, we did some measuring and some angle projections and we got lucky. 'Long with some old rusty nails and a real nice little anchor, we found a new-looking slug. Sent it up to Raleigh to see what the SBI lab can tell us about it. Looked like a .22 to me, which won't be a lot of help 'cause half the county's bought a .22 at one point or another and the other half's stolen one or two.”

”Jay Hadley had a .22 in her boat,” I reminded him.

”Yeah. And somebody said they saw her shoot a gun while y'all were out there.”

Lots of binoculars had probably swept the area once she'd radioed for help, so it didn't surprise me to hear that we'd been observed. Nor to realize that Smith wanted to hear about the incident.

”She said she saw a stingray.”

”Yeah?”

”Guess it'd make as good a reason as any if you were scared some hotshot lawman might notice you had a recently fired rifle on your boat,” I said blandly.

He laughed. ”Maybe I ought to sign you up to be a mosquito, too.”

a a a Afternoon court was more wildlife violations (the hunting season for tundra swans was long over and loons haven't been in season since 1919). Worthless checks, minor drug possessions and an obscene phone caller carried us up to adjournment. At the recess, Chet Winberry knocked on my door while I was signing a show cause order for one of the attorneys.

”Don't let me interrupt,” he said. ”Linville's invited us to her party, too, and Barbara Jean said if you want to come by after court and freshen up at our place, we could go on over together.”

It was a welcome invitation. I'd stuck a garment bag with party clothes in my car that morning, and this would save me having to change in chambers and then figure out exactly where Linville Pope lived.

Chet adjourned his court earlier than mine, but he'd sketched a map and sent it down with his clerk. The directions looked simple enough: straight east on Front Street till you almost ran out of land at Lennox Point, which was less than two miles across North River Channel from Harkers Island as the gull flies.

I'd been to parties at the Winberrys' house in North Raleigh when he was still an attorney with the state and they were alternating weekends back and forth from Beaufort, but this was a first for down here.

After pa.s.sing Liveoak Street, a main artery back to Highway 70, Front Street meanders on down along Taylors Creek, so close to Carrot Island that you can see the famous wild ponies grazing its spa.r.s.e vegetation. At the town limit, Front makes a sharp left turn and dead ends into Lennoxville Road right at Beaufort Fishery, a collection of tin-sided buildings inside a chain-link fence. Moored out front was a large trawler, the Coastal Mariner. Somewhat further on down, but less than half the size, was Neville Fishery, the only other menhaden factory still left on the coast of North Carolina. The trawler anch.o.r.ed there was much smaller. Rustier, too.

I drove slowly, enjoying the views that opened between ancient moss-draped live oaks. As a kid, I'd often taken Spanish moss home from the coast and draped it on our own trees, but our inland air is too dry and it never wintered over. To my left, azaleas flamed around the foundations of s.p.a.cious houses set back from the road. To my right, Carrot Island stood out crisply in the April sunlight, and I rolled down my windows so I could enjoy the cool salty air.

Eventually I pa.s.sed a landmark on Chet's map and started counting mailboxes till I came to one that serviced a nearly unnoticeable lane that curved off through yaupon, myrtle and scrub pines. Once through the wall of shrubbery, I saw an attractive low white brick house that spread itself modestly in its own grove of shady live oaks. Beds of red, pink and white azaleas interplanted with tulips and white ageratum wound extravagantly through the grounds. All in all, except for the boat dock out back and the water beyond that, it wasn't so very different from their North Raleigh house.

Barbara Jean met me at the door, still in jeans and sweats.h.i.+rt, with a familiar smell of fish in her hair. She handed me a light-on-the-bourbon and Pepsi, just the way I like it, and insisted on taking my garment bag. We went straight down a wide hall and into a spare bedroom, Barbara Jean talking the whole way.

”Have you talked to Quig Smith? Are they any closer to finding who killed Andy?”

”Not that he's saying,” I told her. ”He was killed with a .22 and Smith says everybody down here has one.”

”Not us,” said Chet from the doorway of their bedroom. ”Not anymore.” He gestured toward an empty gun case at the other end of the hall. ”Somebody jimmied the lock last week and took all four of our guns, including the .22 my dad gave me when I was twelve.”

”And we need to file an insurance claim on them, too, hon,” said Barbara Jean as she laid my bag across a comforter patterned in bright daffodils. ”I should have told you to spend the night, Deborah, instead of making that drive back to Harkers Island. Why don't you? Then you won't have to worry about how many drinks you have. I can lend you a toothbrush and nightgown. No trouble.”

”Just how late do c.o.c.ktail parties last down here?” I asked curiously.

”Anywhere from two hours to two days,” said Chet.

He'd already showered and dressed and looked exceedingly handsome in his navy blazer and pale gray slacks. Barbara Jean told him so and he leered back at her.

Barbara Jean was taller than me, with good facial bone structure, nice legs and a figure well worth a spare leer or two, even in her work clothes.

For a moment, they reminded me of my brother Seth and his wife Minnie. Must be nice to be a grandmother and still have a husband look at you that way.

She showed me towels and hair dryer, then went off to bathe while Chet trailed along. ”To help,” he explained.

The Winberrys were not what you'd call wealthy-the bulk of Chet's practice had been Neville Fishery before his appointment to that state commission, and Barbara Jean's little fish meal factory probably didn't net her much more than Chet's salary these days. I gathered it had been quite profitable all during her childhood, however, and family investments allowed her and Chet to raise their only daughter in comfortable luxury.

This had been her bedroom and the adjoining shower had pale yellow tiles, each hand-painted with a single spring flower and no two alike, so that it took me longer to look at each tile than it did to wash my hair and bathe.

Another five minutes with towels and blow dryer, then I slipped into a cream-colored silk jumpsuit that did good things for my hair and skin. Body lotion, makeup, chains of crystals and pearls to soften the tailored s.h.i.+rt top, more crystals for my ears; finally a flat Mexican purse woven of turquoise and red and gold to add a touch of color.

”Very nice,” Chet said appreciatively, but it was clearly Barbara Jean who delighted him more. Her short navy-blue dress had long skintight sleeves. Cut high in front to accent a string of antique pearls, its low back revealed skin that was still smooth and supple.

Chet was tall, yet Barbara Jean topped his shoulders in her high heels as they led the way down to their boat landing. He pulled her close and I heard him murmur, ”That the perfume I bought you last week?”

When she nodded, he smiled back at me. ”Old lady looks pretty good to've cooked up a half-million fish today, doesn't she?”

”Is that what she did?” As we walked along their dock, I was trying not to catch a spike heel in the cracks between the wide, salt-treated planks.