“And Raymond had access to every part of it?”
“Access?” She seemed bewildered by my question.
“Maybe I should rephrase that,” I said. “Were there any parts of the house or farm that you’d put off-limits to him? Any of the barns or shelters?”
“No, of course not. He had to be able to get to the tools and equipment—the lawn mower, tractor, the rakes and shovels.”
“What about the house? Basement, attic?”
“There is no basement. As for the attic, there’s nothing up there for him. In fact, he never goes beyond the kitchen unless I need him to move a heavy piece of furniture.”
“So the kitchen is the only place he would feel free to enter?”
Her neat gray head gave a firm nod. “And then only if I were here.”
“There might be times though when you were gone and he was working outside alone?” I persisted.
“Well, yes, but—“
“Mrs. Avery, Major Bryant here has a warrant to search your house.”
Dwight drew the warrant from the inner breast pocket of his sports jacket. Smudge cocked his head, but Mrs. Avery did not reach for it.
“Search? My house?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Whatever for? I told you that he wasn’t allowed—oh! You think he came in when I wasn’t here?”
“Have we your permission?” I asked
“Well, yes, of course, although if you brought a search warrant, it seems to me you don’t need my permission, do you?”
She started to rise, but Dwight touched her arm and said, “Why don’t you wait out here with Deborah, ma’am? It might be less upsetting for you.”
As Dwight followed his two deputies inside, Mrs. Avery shook her head. “It’s wicked, just wicked.”
“The search?” I asked.
“That Raymond could be put to death for something he didn’t even know he was doing.”
Her distress seemed genuine as she pleated the soft cotton fabric of her skirt between her fingers. The dog put his head on her knee and she stroked his silky ears until some of the tension went out of her face.
We sat without speaking for a time and gazed out over the shady green lawns that stretched through new flower beds down to the branch. Beyond the dip of the branch, there wasn’t much left of Burning Heart of God. Those workers had been industrious and had hauled away the burned-out trailer that had served as Sister Williams’s home. “I understand there was a reversion clause in the deed your grandfather gave the church.”
“Such a surprise. But so fortuitous that I can hold it in trust for them,” Mrs. Avery said with a touch of her usual complacency. “My grandfather was a farsighted man.”
“Once you get rid of those old wrecked cars out by the little graveyard, this will be a pretty view.”
“It was my grandmother’s favorite place to sit when I was a little girl. Preacher Renfrow used to keep that little church pretty as a postcard. He and the congregation would get out twice a year and have cleanup day and you could hear them singing of a Sunday evening. So restful.” She sighed.
“Things were different when Sister Williams took over,” I said softly.
“Oh Deborah, you don’t know! I was just glad that Gramma wasn’t here to see how trashy it got. I nearly died when she hauled that old trailer in. And now look over there at that garbage heap—smashed-up car old washing machine and refrigerator! Not that my brother ever noticed. ‘Live and left live,’ he’d say. ‘It could be worse. We could have a shot house there or a house of bad women.’ He didn’t care how bad it looked. When he wasn’t out on the tractor, he was inside watching television. He just didn’t care.”
“But you did.”
“Well, of course I—” She broke off and her vehemence turned contemplative. “It was awful to see it burned like that, but in a way you can’t really blame Raymond. I mean, here he was, working on this side to make everything beautiful again, while over there… I mean, it’s not as if Sister Williams had a churchful of members.”
“Didn’t hurt much to burn Balm of Gilead either,” I said.
“Exactly! They were going to tear it down anyhow. And Mount Olive’s going to be finer than ever.” Her voice faltered. “Only, that poor man. But to be passed out drunk at church—and on Sunday, too?”
“Good riddance to bad rubbish?” I asked bluntly.
“Oh, now, Deborah, it’s not for us to judge the worth of a person.”
The screen door opened and Dwight said, “Mrs. Avery, we wonder if you could tell us about something in here?”
As she rose, Dwight caught my eye and gave an imperceptible nod.
We passed through the kitchen and, to my surprise, skirted the study where several cartons of school papers still waited for Mrs. Avery to sort through them.
“I see you still haven’t thrown any of those papers away or sent them to be recycled,” I said.
“Not yet. I’ve been too busy.”
Dwight continued on upstairs and we trailed along. Smudge, too.
“Raymond came up here?” she asked. “What was he doing?”
At the end of the upper hall was a narrow, inconspicuous door that led to a steeper set of steps.
Mrs. Avery stopped short when she saw the open door. “The attic? What on earth—?”
Slowly she followed Dwight up the steps. The dog’s nails clicked on the uncarpeted wood. Mrs. Avery was almost breathless when we came out under a roof with such a high pitch that even Dwight could stand up without worrying about banging his head. Jamison and Richards were there, too, and they wore white latex gloves to keep from contaminating the evidence.
Naked lightbulbs hung down from the rafters. It was hot up here, but ventilator fans in the roof kept it from being unbearable. For such an old house, the attic was surprisingly uncluttered. Boxes and trunks lined the sides, but the middle space was completely empty except for several pieces of thin plywood lying face down along the tops of the boxes, which were piled chest-high. The largest piece of plywood was no more than eight feet long by twelve or fourteen inches wide, the smallest measured something like four feet by eight inches. There must have been half a dozen pieces.
Slowly, the deputies turned them on edge so that we could see what was lettered there in green paint—the same racist epithets repeated over and over in nearly identical letters. A spray can stood on the floor next to a pair of paint-speckled yellow rubber gloves.
Mrs. Avery put out her hand to steady herself on the stair railing. “I don’t understand. Why would Raymond—”
“No, Mrs. Avery. Not Raymond. You.” Dwight held out a sheet of ruled notebook paper covered with lines written in pencil. At the top of the sheet was the student’s name: Charles Starling, English II. The paper was covered with a fine green mist and certain words were underlined in red pencil. Bigger, for instance, had been written with the same combination of capitals and small letters as the nigger on the boards.
I had hoped they would discover samples of Starling’s school papers in a compromising hiding place. Finding her actual practice boards was gravy on the tree, as Haywood is fond of saying.
“You were in court the day the boys were tried for vandalism,” I said, “and you realized that they had just given you a perfect way to get rid of that eyesore across the branch. You would burn down some black churches, sandwiching raggedy little Burning Heart of God in the middle, and pray Starling got all the blame because it would be only his printing on the walls.”
“That’s ridiculous!” she snapped. “Really, Deborah.”
“Not half as ridiculous as you pretending you didn’t know your grandfather had placed a restriction on that church deed. As carefully as you’ve researched your family’s records for the past four hundred years? I don’t think so. If we look through your scrapbooks, I bet we’ll find copies of every deed your family’s ever held.”