The Buzzard Table - By Margaret Maron Page 0,18

for him to do to fulfill the community service hours you’re going to give him.”

I did have to smile at that. “And just how do you know I’d planned to give him community service instead of jail time?”

He beamed back at me. “Because you’re a kind person,” he said. “Besides, you’ve had nephews who’ve had trouble with the law and you’ve seen the difference between meaningful service and jail time that doesn’t teach them anything.”

“And you think you and Mrs. Harald can design a program that will let him accomplish something more significant than spending a hundred hours picking up trash from our roadsides?”

“Absolutely!”

“Very well,” I said. “Mr. Harper, I sentence you to three days in the county jail, the sentence to be suspended on condition that you not trespass on the Colleton County Airport property and that you complete seventy-two hours of community service as designed by Mr. Williams and Mrs. Harald, subject to the approval of this court.”

Before I could bring down my gavel, Richard said, “What about court costs, Your Honor?”

I sighed. A recent statute requires us to make a special finding before we waive the court costs, but a student with a limited income certainly qualifies.

“Court costs waived,” I said, making the appropriate notation on the form in front of me. “This court will be in adjournment until two o’clock.”

CHAPTER

7

Turkey vultures do not have a voice box and thus have limited vocalization capabilities.

—The Turkey Vulture Society

Major Dwight Bryant—

Wednesday morning, February 9

The skies had finally cleared and bright winter sunlight flooded through the tall windows of the family room, making the bloodstain on the end of the floral patterned couch look like a misplaced bunch of darker roses that had trailed down onto the sand-colored carpet. Dwight Bryant stood in the archway with the owner of Coyne Realty and watched while Percy Denning, who headed the department’s crime scene team, finished going over the area inch by inch. They could hear voices echoing through the empty rooms as other officers dusted for fingerprints on doorknobs and handles.

“I know you went over everything with the officers last night,” Dwight said, “but I’d appreciate it if you would take us through it again this morning.”

“It’s Becca Jowett’s blood, isn’t it?” Ms. Coyne asked. She had stressed the Miz in a businesslike tone when they met, then smiled. “Or you can just call me Paula.”

Late fifties, with a tipped-up Irish nose and a body kept taut by daily horseback rides, the real estate agent normally had an easy laugh. She was not laughing now.

“It’s too soon to tell,” Dwight said. “All we can say for sure is that it’s human.”

“O-positive?”

“Is that her blood type?”

Paula Coyne nodded. “We give to the Red Cross every two months. I’m A-positive and she’s O. It is Becca’s blood, isn’t it?”

“Now, Ms. Coyne—”

“And she’s still missing. As soon as I saw that stain, I was afraid we were going to find her stuffed in one of the closets.”

“How long has Mrs. Jowett worked for you?”

“Six years. She was my last hire before the market topped out, but she busted her britches to help some of our low-end clients find affordable homes when the others on my staff were coasting with the free spenders, so she’s the one I kept on even though things have slowed so much now that I could pretty much handle the sales by myself. We only represent buyers, not sellers, but it’s been a pretty lean time for the whole industry.”

Holding her thumb and index fingers almost touching, Ms. Coyne said, “Becca was that close to selling this house. It’s been on the market for almost a year, waiting for the bank to set a realistic price. As soon as it dropped into their price range in January, she called the Todds. They signed the due diligence agreement the very next day and put down earnest money. Everything’s been done—the repairs and the inspections—and they were due to close tomorrow.

“When we didn’t hear from Becca, I stepped in to cover—did a walk-through in the morning to familiarize myself with the property and made sure that everything was in order for the closing. The Todds called back last night, though, and wanted to take one more look upstairs even though they were legally committed. Now?” She sighed. “Mrs. Todd doesn’t want to have anything to do with this house even if it means losing their earnest money, and I can’t really fault them, even though this is their dream house. Closer to