“Really, Deborah,” he said frostily, clearly remembering with distaste his previous encounter with Allen. I wasn’t about to tell him that he’d gotten me an annulment for a bigamous marriage. “I should think that you of all people would see the unsuitability of that when there’s a strong possibility that he’s involved in his uncle’s death.”
“But what if he isn’t?”
“Then it will all come to him in due time without Mrs. Stancil’s gesture.”
So either way, Allen gained nothing he didn’t already have in his pocket. Even so, “I’m surprised you let a client die without a will.” I was thinking out loud, not really expecting an answer, but John Claude chose to think I was questioning his professional standards.
“I had drafted one that he was to sign on Monday as well. A simple instrument. It divided his estate equally between Stancil and Merrilee Grimes, with Stancil getting the house, garage, equipment and all the cars and Mrs. Grimes to receive an equal value in land.”
And an unsigned will is worth less than the paper it’s written on. But assuming either had been a motive, which piece of paper had Mr. Jap been killed to prevent? The will or the deed?
And what if Cherry Lou or her children weren’t really all that eager to throw in the cards?
“Is there any chance that Cherry Lou Stancil could be acquitted?” I asked.
“With a jury, there’s always a chance,” he replied dryly. “But if I were Avery Brewer, I shouldn’t aspire to be a Johnnie Cochran.”
“Which is why they picked you to moderate an ethics discussion,” I told him. “Break a leg, hear?”
16
« ^ » That these accounts are genuine and true, we hope, will appear from the following general description of the province in question, in which all that is intended, is to lay before my countrymen things most essential for them to know…“Scotus Americanus,” 1773
All was quiet when I arrived at the Colleton County Sheriff’s Department in the basement of the courthouse. Indeed, the duty officer at the front desk was absorbed in a paperback romance and she barely acknowledged my wave as I passed. Saturday night, yes, but much too early for any bloody knife-fighters, spaced-out deadheads, wife beaters, drunk drivers or other violators and disturbers of the peace who would be showing up— stitched, sober and sorry—in my courtroom next week.
As I approached Dwight’s office, I heard the low rumble of male voices, then a raucous laugh that could belong to no one except Special Agent Terry Wilson, State Bureau of Investigation.
Dwight’s always been like another brother, but Terry and I came awfully close to making it legal once. Fortunately, we had the good sense to backoff, and then we had the even better sense to stay friends.
That didn’t stop him from giving me an exaggerated leer when I came in. “Damn, but that Kidd Chapin’s a cocky bastard.”
“Why, Mr. Wilson, whatever do you mean?” I asked in my best Scarlett O’Hara drawl.
“Letting a good-looking woman like you out alone on a Saturday night? If he’s not cocky, then he’s sure ’nuff crazy.”
We talked trash a few minutes longer, till I asked him about Stanton and he came crashing back to reality with a frustrated groan. Stanton’s his son by his first marriage, sixteen years old and climbing Fool’s Hill, to hear Terry tell it.
“He’s a mess! You know how I wasn’t going to let him have a car till he could pay for the upkeep and insurance?”
“Yeah, and even when you were laying down that law last year, I told you it wasn’t going to last much past the candles on his birthday cake.”
“I’d’ve stuck to it, hadn’t been for his mama. All those after-school activities? She didn’t like him hitching rides with any kid who’s got a driver’s license, so we bought him a good used car and he got a weekend job. Only now he needs to work more hours to pay for the upkeep so he’s cut out a lot of the after-school stuff. He’s even talking about not going out for baseball next spring.”
“I’ve heard my nieces and nephews sing the whole five stanzas,” I said. “They need a car to get work, but the main reason they have to work is to support the damn car. If they schedule their study halls for the end of the day, the schools will even give them early release so they can work longer hours to buy newer cars. Between school and work, they’re putting in ten- and twelve-hour days. When do they have time to study?”
“They don’t,” Terry said grimly. “Stanton’s grade average has dropped a whole letter. He keeps this up, he’ll be lucky to get into Wake Tech.”
“You sure you don’t want to hang around tonight, split a pizza with me and Deb’rah?” asked Dwight. “She’s buying.”
“Wish I could, but I’d better get on back to Raleigh. Unlike you two, I’ve got a real date tonight”
“Yeah? Anybody we know?”
He gave a sheepish grin. “Stanton’s algebra teacher. We’re chaperoning their Thanksgiving dance tonight.”
“Well, good luck to you,” said Dwight, “and we sure ’preciate your help on that drug evidence.”
“No problem. Just let me know how it turns out, okay?”
He gave me a hug and then he was gone and I turned to find Dwight giving me an odd look.
“What?” I asked.
“Allen Stancil. I ran a background check on him. Criminal and civil. Want to see what I came up with?”
“Not unless there’s a warrant out on him,” I said warily. “Is there?”
“Not at the moment. But if we don’t hear from him by tomorrow, I may put an apprehend on the network.”
He pushed a bunch of printout sheets across his desk anyhow and I leafed through them. Allen had certainly led a busy life, beginning all the way back to his teenage years when he was caught hauling a load of bootleg whiskey through Greensboro before he was old enough to get a valid driver’s license. I knew that Mr. Jap had recruited him and Dallas both to transport moonshine occasionally, but trust a fourteen-year-old to keep cool with all that power under the hood? Of course, Daddy had been head of a household before he was fourteen, so maybe it didn’t seem as outrageous back then as it does now. Allen’s age was all that saved him on that one.
Most of the recorded violations were minor and had been punished by fines and a scattering of light jail sentences that ranged from overnight to thirty days. No moral pillar of the community but no wife beater or serial killer either.
He did seem to get questioned an awful lot about stolen cars, though.
“Guy I talked to out in Charlotte says they just busted up a big chop shop operation—one of those places that steal cars to order and then chop them up for parts.”
I hate it when Dwight patronizes me. “They can dismantle a car in seven minutes flat, then sell the parts for more than the original car’s worth. I do know what a chop shop is, thank you very much.”
“Sorry. Anyhow, the guy says Stancil was one of the known associates and that probably the only reason he didn’t get hauled in, too, was because he’s been out of the area the last month when they were doing their heaviest surveillance. They don’t have any actual evidence against him.”
“Guilt by association?” I said dryly.
Dwight had been leaning back in his swivel chair, one foot lazily propped on an open desk drawer. Now he came upright with both feet on the floor.
“Oh, come on, Deb’rah. You’re holding his rap sheets. You think he came over to Colleton County and got religion? He was just getting out of Dodge City before the bullets started flying. You can’t really believe the guy’s clean?”
I thought back to yesterday—was it really only yesterday and not weeks ago?—when Mr. Jap was bragging on Allen’s automotive skills and prowess: “He bought a old wrecker from some man out from Raleigh, he did, and in just two days, he got it fixed up good enough to sell, yes, he did.”