• • •
As it turned out, there were so many requests for continuances in the afternoon session that we were finished for the day a few minutes before three. I quickly adjourned and headed back for Harkers Island. Dark clouds were rolling in from the west and rain that had been predicted didn’t seem far away.
By the time I got to the church where Andy’s funeral was to be preached, it was nearly packed to the brim. There were Sunday school classrooms on either side of the main sanctuary, though, and folding panels slid back so that another fifty people could be shoehorned in. I was among them. People who came even later had to stand along the back walls.
The casket was closed before the family entered—Andy’s two sons, their wives, five grandchildren, and a handful of people who could have been brothers and sisters or cousins. Seated on the side as I was, I had a good view. The daughters-in-law had red-rimmed eyes and the boys looked as if they’d done their share of mourning, too. An older woman cried silently through the whole service.
Chet and Barbara Jean sat amid a group of members of the Alliance. Or so I assumed, since at least half of them, including Barbara Jean and Jay Hadley, wore white carnations in their lapels. Two teenagers sat beside Jay. The girl looked to be seventeen or eighteen and was a younger, prettier version of her blonde mother. I’d heard the boy was only sixteen but he had a man’s growth and was darker of hair and eyes.
The choir sang “Rock of Ages” and “Safe in the Arms of Jesus,” then the preacher called for prayer. He was on the charismatic side and got so carried away with such a huge audience that, at one point, he seemed to think he was conducting a revival instead of a funeral. As he spoke of repentance and salvation and exhorted us to save our souls (“For ye knoweth not the hour when the Lord shall call ye home”), I almost expected him to issue an invitation and for the pianist to break into “Almost Persuaded.”
At the last minute, however, he restrained himself and settled into an earnest detailing of Andy Bynum’s goodness and virtues and the legacy of love and respect he was leaving behind, “a monument not carved in stone, my friends, nor writ in water, but indelibly etched on the hearts and lives of people he touched.”
Near the end, he alluded to the manner in which death had come and said, “Andy’s boys, Drew and Maxton, asks y’all to search your memories of last Sunday. If anybody passed Andy out there near the banks, if anybody saw someone else out there—if you don’t want to tell the sheriff, at least find it in your heart to tell one of them.”
A final hymn, a prayer, then we rose and followed the casket out to the churchyard where a blue tent protected three rows of folding chairs and the open grave. The casket was rolled into place and the family was seated while the rest of us stood quietly and hoped the rain would hold off a half hour longer.
After another homily and another prayer, the preacher shook the hand of each family member and they went back inside the church to wait until the casket had been lowered, the dirt shoveled back in, and the wreaths arranged to cover the raw earth.
The congregation sort of shifted away from the graveside, too, as if it weren’t quite good manners to stand and stare while this was going on. Car doors slammed as some people left immediately. Most, though, lingered in small groups to shake their heads over Andy’s murder and to wonder aloud what would happen to the Alliance now. I saw Telford Hudpeth talking to Barbara Jean and Jay Hadley. Chet was in deep conversation with someone I didn’t recognize.
Detective Quig Smith was there with Deputy Marvin Willitt, who was in uniform.
“Gentlemen,” I said.
“Ma’am,” said Deputy Willitt and immediately cut out.
“Was it something I said?” I asked.
Smith grinned. “Nah. He’s supposed to be directing traffic.”
“Really?”
“Okay, and asking a few questions, too. Making himself available in case somebody takes to heart what the preacher was saying.” He glanced over to where two laborers from the funeral home were shoveling dirt. “You ever been to New Orleans?”
“That’s an odd question.”
“I was just thinking about the difference in water tables. How they have to bury their dead above ground. Not like here.” He shook his head. “Going to be hard keeping developers out of this place. Too much high ground over here.”
It looked pretty flat to me, but I suppose these things are relative.
We were standing at the edge of the crowd, two virtual outsiders. As long as we were alone, I felt free to say, “From what the sons are asking, I gather that there’s been no progress toward finding Andy’s killer?”
“Wouldn’t say that exactly. We’ve been up and down the island asking questions, especially houses on the sound side. People can be right vague about what they’ve seen.”
“But somebody did see something?”
He rubbed his chin. “Now, Judge.”
As we spoke, his denim-blue eyes roved the crowd and he nodded courteously whenever anyone made eye contact. “You’re staying in that little yellow house behind Clarence Willis, right?”
“Yes. It belongs to my cousins.”
“They ever have anything stolen?”
“Not that I—well, maybe a couple of spinner reels. A tape player, stuff like that.”
“He file a report?”
“No. He figured he knew who took it and it was never all that much.”
“Mickey Mantle Davis, hmm?”
“He did use to be right bad for taking stuff that wasn’t nailed down,” I admitted.
“Still is,” said Smith with a slow smile that told me he’d heard about a hand puppet accusing Mickey Mantle of bicycle theft.
“But that’s from off-islanders, and once my cousins got some decent window locks, it pretty much stopped. Mickey Mantle would never bust a window on them.”
“How long you known the Winberrys?” he asked abruptly.
“You do jump around, don’t you? Is this relevant to something?”
“Just wondering. Somebody said you went to a party with them the other night. I guess judges hang out a lot together though.”
“No more than sheriff’s deputies,” I said.
As if to disprove my point, Chet picked that minute to walk over and ask if I’d like to ride in to Beaufort with them for dinner. “One of us could run you back across by boat later.”
“Thanks, Chet, but it looks like rain and I think I’ll make it an early night tonight,” I told him.
As he walked away to collect Barbara Jean, who seemed to be having a strategy meeting with several of her colleagues, I saw that Quig Smith was smiling again.
“What?” I asked.
“Just thinking about late nights and such. How well you know Kidd Chapin?”
I grinned. “More to the point, Detective Smith, how well do you know him?”
“He’s a catbird, ol’ Kidd. But I’ll say this for him: he’s a fine lawman. Real big on conservation, too.” He gave me a considering look. “I bet you’re not married either.”
“That’s it,” I laughed and turned toward my car, but Smith fell in step beside me.
“The first road through the island was paved with seashells,” he confided. “You wouldn’t believe the pile of shells used to be off Shell Point.”
“Where Indians used to come to the island every spring and pig out on oysters and clams,” I said. “I know. I’ve heard the stories.”
“They say there were so many shells it was like they were trying to build a causeway out to the cape.” He kicked at the pavement consideringly. “Been better off to’ve kept this road in shells. Runoff from asphalt’s something awful. We ought to pass a law that for every twenty-five parking spaces, parking lots’ve got to have at least one deciduous tree. Because even if it’s clean rainwater—which it never is—too much fresh water can be just as bad for estuarine life as polluted water.”