Long Upon the Land by Margaret Maron Page A

landowner could dig a well, put in septic tanks, and start renting spaces for mobile homes. The address Dwight had for Joby Earp was located in Rolling Vista, one of those informal trailer parks a few miles out from Cotton Grove. Rolling Vista might have seemed an appropriate name for a treeless field fifty years ago. Today, tall oaks and maples spread deep shade over a cluster of older singlewides and all the vistas were blocked out by overgrown azaleas and privet. A bank of mailboxes stood at the entrance of an unpaved U-shaped drive that led in from the highway, curved past the mobile homes, and exited back out a few hundred feet further down the road. There was no rental office, only a homemade sign that gave the name and phone number of a management agency. The trailers themselves were weathered and shabby but the grounds were neatly kept and summer zinnias and tubs of petunias brightened more than one dooryard.
    Dwight slowed to a stop by one of them and called through the window of his truck to two old men who sat on an old wooden bench under a magnolia tree in full bloom. “Can you tell me where Joby Earp lives?”
    Both pointed to a faded green trailer two doors down. “He ain’t home, though. Saw him drive out about an hour ago. Him and his wife, too.”
    “Either of you know his nephew Vick Earp?”
    One man shrugged, the other said, “Didn’t know he had one.”
    “Didn’t they use to have two boys living with ’em?” asked the first.
    “So they did,” said the second. “Ain’t seen ’em around in years, though. Sorry, mister.”
    Dwight thanked them and circled past the green trailer to get back on the road. He called Deputy Mayleen Richards, gave her the number for Earp’s cell phone, and asked her to see what information his phone company could provide about his recent calls. “Any word on his truck yet?”
    “Sorry, Major.”
    “Tell Sheriff Poole I’m on my way in,” he said.
      
    Sheriff Bo Poole reminded Dwight of a bantam cock. His small body radiated confident energy and he walked as if there were springs on the soles of his feet. Six inches shorter than Dwight, he had an outsized personality and a good ol’ boy folksiness, which hid a shrewdness that would probably keep him in office as long as he wanted to run because the citizens of Colleton County kept crossing party lines to vote for him. But the whole country was becoming more and more polarized and he knew such loyalty could no longer be taken for granted.
    “Any leads in this murder?” he asked when Dwight tapped on his open door.
    “Too early,” Dwight said.
    “You talk to Ashworth?”
    “About the Clarion ’s insinuations? Yeah.”
    “You know I got to ask, Dwight. Anything to it?”
    “Did my wife conspire with her father, a man pushing ninety, to murder a stranger, dump him on his own land, and then lead us to his body?”
    Bo leaned back in his big leather chair and laughed. “Well, yeah, put like that…”
    “So far, the only connection to Mr. Kezzie is where the body was found, Bo. It’s been a lover’s lane for years and Earp’s wife says he used to take her there back when they were courting.”
    “So is this somebody’s idea of a joke? Who else would know him and know that place, too? What about Mrs. Earp herself? She do it?”
    “I don’t see how. She got to the cousin’s house around six Friday evening, all beat up. Miss Young doctored her face and put her right to bed. Both of them say she never stirred from the house all night, which is probably when it happened. Not that Dr. Singh can tell us when the blow that killed him was actually delivered. But they were together all day Saturday and she was still there Sunday when I went to tell her Earp was dead. I’ve got people out talking to his co-workers and his brother. Sure would help if we could find his truck, though.”
    They batted it around for a few more minutes, then moved on to other incidents and lower-level crimes from the weekend.