Heartwood (Billy Bob Holland 2)

“ ‘Your husband, Wilbur.’ ”

“You’re his lawyer?” she asked.

“No, ma’am, I’m afraid not,” I replied.

She seemed to look at a thought, or a question, inside her head.

“I’ll get you some coffee. It’s already made,” she said.

Before I could answer, she walked into the kitchen and picked up a blue, white-freckled coffeepot off the stove with a hot pad and poured into a cup, one fingertip inset just below the cup’s rim. She went to the cabinet and brought a sugar bowl and spoon to the table and sat down with me, her eyes fixed on my face as though she could see.

“This man Deitrich, he’s got millions of dollars. Why’s he doing this to Wilbur?” she said.

“He says Wilbur stole his bonds,” I replied.

“If you’re my husband’s friend, you know he didn’t do it.”

“He shouldn’t have taken the watch.”

Her face darkened and her sightless eyes remained fixed on mine, as though she had transferred an image of me from the external world to one inside her head that she could examine, an image that bothered her. Unconsciously I wiped my palm on my trouser leg.

“Money and people are a bad combination, Ms. Pickett. I’m never surprised at what people will do for it. I’m not necessarily talking about your husband,” I said. Outside, the windmill was pumping water into a corrugated metal tank that had overflowed on the ground.

The wind puffed the screen door open. Her head turned toward the sound, then back at me. “How much is it for a lawyer?” she asked.

“In a case like this, you’ll probably need a few thousand. Sometimes you can pay it out.”

She nodded again, then she said, “Ms. Titus, the neighbor he mentioned in the letter, is down sick. Can you drop me off at the IGA? I can get somebody to bring me back.”

“Don’t y’all have some family hereabouts?”

“His mother was the last one. She died a couple of months back.”

I could hear the horses nickering out in the pasture, the windmill shifting in the breeze, the blades ginning furiously.

“Tell you what, Ms. Pickett. I’ll carry you down to the grocery and wait for you, then I’ll go back up to the jail and talk to Wilbur again.”

Her face showed no expression.

“He thinks growing up here means people will take his word over a rich man’s. That’s why he loses out in all his business deals. That’s just Wilbur. But this time it’s different, isn’t it?” she said.

“Well, you never know,” I lied, then waited for her out by my Avalon.

Dust devils were blowing out of the hills in the distance and the wind was hot and dry and thick with grasshoppers.

I lived by myself in a three-story purple-brick Victorian home in the west end of the county. It had a wide, screened-in gallery and a veranda on the second floor, and the front and back yards were framed by poplar trees and blooming myrtle and the flower beds planted with hydrangeas and yellow and red roses. I parked the Avalon in back and fixed a chicken sandwich and plate of stuffed eggs and potato salad and a glass of iced tea for lunch and ate it at the kitchen table.

The interior of the house was oak and mahogany, and the wind seemed to fill every room with the presence of all my ancestors who had lived there. From my window I could see my barn and horse lot and my Morgan named Beau rolling on his side in the pasture, the windmill ginning on the far side of the barn roof, the fields of melons, corn, strawberries, cantaloupes, beans, and tomatoes that a neighbor farmed on shares, and a two-acre tank, or lake, that the state had stocked with bream and big-mouth bass.

At the far end of my property was a stand of hardwoods, then the bluffs over the river, which was slate green in late summer and roiling and full of mud and cottonwood bloom in the spring.

The sun went behind the clouds and the wind was cool inside the house, as though it were being drawn through the windows by a huge attic fan. But I could not concentrate on the fine day or the fact that where I lived had always been for me the best place on earth. Instead I kept thinking of Wilbur Pickett and the uncomfortable reality that I had never come to terms with my feelings for Peggy Jean Murphy, who was another man’s wife now, or with the memory of what it was like to feel her hand slip down the small of my back, her thighs cradling my hips, while I came inside a woman for the first time and the fecund odor of damp earth and bruised grass and wildflowers rose around us in a green envelope that for a moment seemed to hold together the vanity of my passion and her unrequited love for a dead soldier.

I picked up the phone and called Marvin Pomroy at the prosecutor’s office.

“I’m representing Wilbur Pickett,” I said.

“That’s funny. I just talked to him. He said you told him to drop dead,” Marvin said.