Free Southern Discomfort by Margaret Maron Page A

played phone tag and finally left a message at SBI headquarters that I'd meet them at the field because I had to drop by a funeral home first.
    Just because I had that fall's election wired didn't mean I could let up. The mother of one of the county commissioners had died. I never met the woman, but her son is one who'd remember if I didn't go and offer my condolences. Besides, once you gain elective office, you find yourself treating almost every gathering as another golden opportunity to press the flesh.
    I was in and out in under forty minutes, but then I had to go home and change from funeral home decorum to jeans and sneakers.
*      *      *
    The game was tied 1-1 when I got there in the bottom of the second and it stayed that way through the next six innings. Two of my nephews were playing for Dobbs, so I sat on a bleacher between home and third with Terry and my brothers and their wives, and I hollered for both sides indiscriminately. In the top of the ninth, Stanton batted in the go-ahead run for his team; in the bottom, as shortstop, he caught a hard-hit line drive down the middle and stepped on second before my nephew could get back from third. Unassisted doubleplay. A high pop-up to center ended the game.
    Terry yelled himself hoarse, hugged me hard, and wanted to take everybody out for pizza, including my two nephews and their parents.
    "Can't do it," I said. "We carpenters have to get a full night's sleep."
    All through the game, my brothers had teased me about being so out of shape I probably wasn't fit to swing anything heavier than a gavel—I swear, I can't spit in Dobbs without having a brother in California call up the next day and tell me spitting's not very ladylike. They'd heard I was borrowing tools from Herman and thought they'd get my goat singing choruses of "If I Were a Carpenter and You Were a Lady"—words changed to suit my situation, of course.
    "Better do a good job," said Will as we climbed down from the bleachers, "or ol’ Rufus here'll make you do it all over again."
    My eyes met those of a trim, fiftyish man with thinning gray hair and an easy smile who had been seated a few rows down from us and whom we had overtaken on our way out. I'd seen that face around the courthouse occasionally, but couldn't remember that we'd ever been introduced. Will knows everybody by their first names, of course.
    "Say what, young man?"
    "You know my sister, don't you?" Will said. "Deborah, this is Rufus Dayley. He's the county's chief building inspector."
    "Everybody knows who Judge Knott is," he said gallantly. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am. Did I hear Will say you're building something?"
    "Only helping," I said.
    Will couldn't let it go. "She's gonna be pounding nails tomorrow over at that house those women are building by themselves."
    "Oh, yes." Dayley nodded. "I've had to pay one of my men overtime, so we can fit the inspections in around you weekend workers." He seemed to hear the less-than-gracious tone in his voice and backpedaled for my benefit. "Of course, if we're going to have a lady judge on the job, I'll have to tell him to go easy on y'all."
    "Oh,
please
don't do that, Mr. Dayley." Girlish sweetness sugared my words till it's a miracle I didn't choke. "Why, I'd just
hate
for him to think you've got a different set of standards for people you know."
    He had to use his fingers to work it out, and then he didn't know whether or not to take it as a joke. His laughter sounded forced as he wished us a good evening.
    Amy shook her head. "I'm no feminist, but—" she began.
    "I'm a feminist,
and
," I grinned.
    "Can't take you anywhere," Terry grumbled.
*      *      *
    Out in the clay-and-gravel parking lot, the night air was hot and still. White moths fluttered in the headlights as the cars pulled out in swirls of heavy red dust that fell straight back to the ground. No moon and too hazy to see many stars. Terry's hunted and fished with all my brothers, and we stood and talked