As the children danced around her, she sat down under Allen’s umbrella and spread the towels for a picnic.
The children immediately tore into the bag of food and the smell of french fries, onions, and pickles floated toward me and made my mouth water despite my full breakfast only two hours earlier. She unwrapped the hamburgers and poured juice into a sippy cup for the toddler, then paused to give me a quizzical look over the top of her colorful sunglasses.
“Hey there,” she said, reaching out a hand that felt like thin dry twigs. “I’m Sally Stancil.”
“I’m sorry,” Allen said “Sally, this here’s Judge Deborah Knott.”
“Judge? Really?” Her sunglasses slipped further down her thin nose and she looked me up and down. I automatically straightened my shoulders and sucked in my tummy, aware that my red bathing suit showed every extra ounce that I must have gained this weekend. Allen’s second ex-wife (and the woman he’d still been married to when he married me) lifted a well-plucked eyebrow. “Idn’t she the one almost cut off your balls?”
Happily, the children were too involved with their food to pick up on her question and Allen said, “Aw, that was just a little misunderstanding.”
Sally Stancil gave me a friendly smile of solidarity. “He’s a hound dog, idn’t he? You want a hamburger, honey? I got extra.”
“No thanks,” I told her and stood to walk back to my own umbrella. “Nice meeting you,” I said and waved goodbye to the little girl. The boy was carefully lining up french fries on his paper plate.
Allen jumped to his feet and followed me down the beach. “Sally’s gonna take ’em on up to her room for a nap soon as they finish eating, so how ’bout we go someplace where we can set down and have a real lunch? Ain’t no reason we can’t be friends, right?”
I looked up into his hopeful brown eyes. His neatly trimmed beard and mustache had almost as much salt as pepper these days, but if you overlooked the scars and tattoos, he still exuded a rough-hewn sexy charm and he really did seem to have finally settled down to a law-abiding life. I mean, how much more respectable can you get than installing seamless rain gutters?
“Friends? Yes,” I said and shook his work-hardened hand, “but I already made plans for lunch. Sorry.”
It was a lie, of course, but he pretended to believe me.
“Okay, then, darlin’. Catch you later, maybe.”
Inside the hotel, I stopped by the registration desk in the lobby to pick up my name tag and the thick packet of conference material.
Counting everyone who’s come out of retirement to take up the slack when emergencies arise, North Carolina has around three hundred district court judges, all of whom are required to attend at least one educational conference a year. Some go only to the fall conference up in the mountains, others only to the summer one here in Wrightsville, while still others opt for offerings at the School of Government in Chapel Hill. But the beach is usually pretty popular and the elevator I rode up in was jammed with colleagues who had just checked in. I knew most of them by sight, but none were special friends, so it was “How’s the beach?” and “How was your drive over?”
It reminded me that this was, after all, a professional conference and I was glad I’d pulled on a shirt and shorts over my bathing suit before leaving the beach. Back in my room, I showered and shampooed all the salt out of my sandy blonde hair, then lay down across the bed intending to look through the packet and familiarize myself with the issues that would be discussed. After a morning of sun and surf, though, good intentions fought with a pleasant inertia and inertia won hands down.
It was almost two o’clock before I was vertical again and ready to put on one of my favorite summer dresses. Made of soft blue cotton, the peasant skirt was topped by a matching tunic with bands of white embroidery around the keyhole neckline and along the edges of the three-quarter-length sleeves. I cinched my waist with a white straw belt and fastened a bracelet around my wrist that Mother had given Aunt Zell to keep until my wedding. Each slender gold link held a tiny blue enameled forget-me-not. As if I would ever forget her, with or without the bracelet.
“Sue said it could be your something blue,” Aunt Zell had told me.
Mother had loved Dwight and I would never stop wishing she could have known that we would wind up together. That last summer, when she was telling me all her secrets, I had asked how she had come to marry Daddy.
“It was his fiddle,” she said. “He played himself right into my heart.” Then she clutched my hand and said, “Oh Deborah, honey. Try to marry a man who can make you laugh.” She paused and looked at me thoughtfully. “I wonder if you’ve met him yet?”
Well, of course, I thought I had, but that little romance went bust before the leaves turned. Dwight was in the Army back then, stationed overseas when Mother died, and nowhere on my radar.
I brushed my hair, dabbed moisturizer on my face, then applied lipstick and mascara with a light hand. My skirt had such deep pockets that I could do without a purse. Keys (car and room), lipstick, a thin wallet, and I was ready to roll.
CHAPTER
15
… If calculated deceit is involved, an action for fraud is in order.
—Ulpian (ca. AD 170–228)
The door to Room 628 was once again on the latch, but the voices and laughter were more subdued. Everyone using their indoor voices. I wondered if Allen or his ex-wife had come down and asked for quiet during the children’s naps. Like me, some twenty-five or thirty people were skipping lunch for a handful of nuts, chips, the fruit tray, and a soft drink. A few were nursing beers or a glass of wine, but the hard stuff sat unopened on the sideboard.
Hard politics had been abandoned, too. I had spotted Roberta Ouellette, the judge from Jeffreys’s district, out on the balcony in conversation with Addie Rawls from District 11 and some man who had his back to the door, so I circled past various animated groups, exchanging smiles and handshakes as I went. The snatches of conversations I overheard seemed to be about vacation plans, children and their college applications, the speeding ticket one judge had gotten while passing through the district of his mortal enemy, and an impassioned defense of her beloved Cleveland Indians by Shelly Holt, who will quit the bench in a heartbeat and run for baseball commissioner if it ever becomes an elective position.
Becky Blackmore, also from Wilmington, was using a ballpoint pen on Mark Galloway’s hand to illustrate the symbols certain gang members tattoo on their knuckles while Joe Setzer and Hank Willis wished him luck in washing them off before he had to pass sentence on a Crip or Blood.
Just as I was about walk through the open French doors, I recognized the other judge who was talking to Roberta.
Last spring, a year ago, while still reeling from my breakup with the game warden, I was specialed into Asheboro to adjudicate the equitable distribution of marital property between two high-profile couples, a pair of prominent attorneys and two well-connected potters from nearby Sea-grove. * I was invited to the local bar association dinner and it was there that I met Will Blackstone, a newly appointed judge. No relation to the famous jurist of the eighteenth century, he quickly told me. We were both at loose ends and when he asked me to dinner a few nights later and followed it up with an offer to show me his pottery collection, I accepted even though I figured that showing me his pottery would be the Seagrove equivalent of showing me his etchings.
Three minutes after he left to slip into something more comfortable, he was back wearing nothing but his brand-new judicial robe and a bronze-colored condom. I told him I’d get my own robe from my car and we could do the kinky judge-on-judge scenario he had planned. While he mixed us another round of drinks, I hopped in my car and drove away as fast as I could. I do have some judicial standards, thank you very much, and I knew I’d never be able to wear that robe again had I gone along with that session.
I decided that I could catch Roberta later. No way did I want to make small talk with Will Blackstone.
Steve Shaber was r
estocking the ice buckets when I reached the door. “Hey, didn’t you just get here?” he asked. “Was it something I said?”
“Something you didn’t say,” I told him. “Like where you and Judge Cannell stashed the caviar and smoked salmon.”
He gave a look of mock indignation. “You mean you didn’t see them right beside the goose-liver pâté and the Dom Pérignon?”
“Well, I did see the champagne, but those plastic flutes are so tacky I couldn’t bring myself to pour any.”
He laughed and told me to come back later. “We’ll have room service send up a case of Baccarat crystal just for you.”
Down in the lobby I had paused to watch some children play with the creatures in the touching tank when Chelsea Ann, Rosemary, and Dave strolled in.
“Oh, good!” said Rosemary. “We were going to come find you. See if you wanted to come to Airlie Gardens with us.”
“Airlie Gardens?” asked Martha Fitzhume, who was seated in one of the overstuffed lobby chairs. “May I come, too? I’ve never visited it and Fitz is meeting with the other chief judges this afternoon, so it would be a good opportunity. Unless five of us are too many for one car?”
“Not a bit,” said Rosemary. “Dave’s already begged off. Gardens always bore him.” Her husband gave a what-can-I-tell-you? shrug.
“There’s a tearoom I’ve been wanting to try, as well,” Rosemary said. “So why don’t we do the garden, get tea, and then plan to be back here when the chiefs’ meeting breaks up around six?” She glanced at her watch. “That’ll give us almost three hours. You don’t mind, do you, darling?”
“Not a bit, honey.” He leaned in to give her a husbandly peck on the cheek. “Y’all have fun and don’t worry about me. I’ll find something to do.”
Airlie Gardens is one of Wilmington’s jewels. Like many public gardens, this one started as the hobby and playpretty of a rich woman. Originally part of a huge estate, the gardens now cover sixty-seven acres, ten of them in freshwater lakes and water gardens. One bed of typical Southern perennials flows beautifully into another. Despite the late spring, most of the azaleas had finished blooming, but enough blooms were left to let us imagine the massed glory of a month earlier. Dark green camellia bushes with their shiny leaves formed a backdrop for daylilies of every size and color except blue. I made a mental note not to ever bring Dwight here. Bad as he is for planting trees and bushes, he’d go nuts for the huge, centuries-old live oaks that punctuated the wide lawns, and I could see him enlisting my brothers and their backhoes and trucks to try and transplant a couple to our place.
What really caught our fancy though was the Bottle Chapel, a whimsical gazebo-like structure built of stucco and hundreds of colored glass bottles as a tribute to Minnie Evans, a visionary artist who once worked at the gardens as a gatekeeper and who sold her pictures on the side for a few dollars each. They go for thousands today. Cobalt blue, ruby red, and funky shapes of clear glass caught the sun in an exuberant brilliance.
Less than an hour after we got there, though, Martha was clearly winded and we wound up accepting a ride back to the car from a passing golf cart. “This getting old is for the birds,” she complained as she climbed out of the cart.
Rosemary glanced at her watch and said, “Instead of having tea out somewhere, let’s go back to the hotel. Dave bought a huge box of pastries for our breakfast this morning and we barely put a dent in them. We can sit on the balcony and put our feet up. Besides, I want to show you the beautiful roses he brought me.”
Martha laughed. “No diamond earrings? No pearls? That man’s got a lot to learn about getting out of the doghouse.”
“Well,” said Rosemary, trying to look modest. “He did say something about a new car.”
At the hotel, we trailed Rosemary down the hall to the room she now shared with Dave. She waited for us at the door, key card in hand, and when we had caught up with her, she swiped the card and pushed open the door.
From within came the sound of a bubbling Jacuzzi, a squeal of panic, frantic splashing, and Dave’s “What the hell—?”
Rosemary stepped inside, then stopped short. The entryway and the sliding closet doors were faced with mirrors and the Jacuzzi sat in a mirrored alcove just beyond. Martha Fitzhume was in front of me, but reflected in the mirror were multiple images of a head of bright red hair as it disappeared beneath the soap bubbles. Dave was chest-deep in bubbles and his face was almost the same shade of red.
“You bastard!” Rosemary wailed. “I do not believe this!”
Unable to hold her breath any longer, Jenna the wannabe SBI agent surfaced long enough to see the shock on our faces and immediately submerged again.
Martha put her arm around Rosemary. “Come on, sugar. Unless you want us to drown ’em both for you, you don’t need to stay here.”
As she herded us out, I couldn’t resist one backward look. Dave’s face said it all: punitive alimony, generous child support, and at least half of everything he currently owned.
CHAPTER
16
An obligation to do the impossible is null and void.
—Celsus (ca. AD 67–130)
We went back to Chelsea Ann’s room. Martha sent me up to hers for a bottle of bourbon while she filled the ice bucket, and Rosemary retreated to the bathroom to get control of her tears.
“I’m so sorry, sugar,” Martha said when Rosemary emerged with red-rimmed eyes. “Y’all looked so happy yesterday morning out there on his balcony. I can’t think why in the world he’d mess around with that idiot child when he has a beautiful smart wife like you. And right when you’d taken him back.”
“Oh, come on, Martha,” Rosemary said, taking a deep swallow of the drink I’d handed her. “A fresh firm young body over this forty-three-year-old wreck? You know exactly why.”
“Only because he’s a sex addict,” Chelsea Ann said loyally.
Rosemary clasped her sister’s hand. “Thanks for not saying you told me so.”
“Yeah, well, the afternoon’s still young, kid.”
Martha poured herself a drink, put her feet up, and leaned back against the pillows on one of the beds. “Make a note of the date and time, ladies. We’ll all come to court for you. Vacuum his assets, right?”
“Right!” we chorused and clinked our glasses in solidarity.
“Want me to have that little bitch fired?” asked Martha.
Rosemary shook her head. “It’s not her fault. If I could fall for his lies, if he could make me believe he was a changed man, what chance did that dumb kid have?”
Martha waved the bottle in my direction, but I had volunteered to drive her and Fitz to the reception later, so I passed. Not Rosemary, though.
After an hour, she was well on her way to being thoroughly sloshed when she handed her key card to Chelsea Ann. “Would you and Deborah mind going up and getting my things? I don’t think I can stand to see him again right now.”
We agreed, but when we got to Dave’s room, he didn’t respond to our knock. Chelsea Ann used the key card and cautiously cracked the door. “Dave?”
No answer.
We stepped inside and almost tripped over the wet towels that were flung on the floor. The Jacuzzi had been drained, although several long red hairs decorated the bottom. The closet doors were open, but nothing was inside except for two of Rosemary’s dresses. No masculine toiletries in the bathroom. No sign of his clothes in the dresser, no second suitcase.
“The bastard’s checked out,” Chelsea Ann said. “Good.”
A large vase of roses had begun to drop their crimson petals on the desktop. Probably bought on sale at a grocery store. I dumped them in the nearest wastebasket.
We carried Rosemary’s things back to Chelsea Ann’s room and Rosemary called down to the front desk to confirm what we suspected. Yes, ma’am. Judge Emerson had checked out twenty minutes ago. Did Mrs. Emerson want to keep the room? It was paid for till eleven the next morning.
“No, thank you,” Rosemary said.
Martha was determined to punish him every way possible. “Who’s his chief over there? Joe Turner? I shall make a point of telling him that Dave cannot claim credit for attending this conference,” she said magisterially, as she rose to go get ready for the evening reception.
“Could you give Fitz my regrets?” Rosemary asked plaintively. “I don’t think I feel like going out again this evening.”
“Of course, sugar,” Martha said. “Charge your room service to Dave’s tab, then you get a good night’s sleep and just think about all that lovely alimony you’re gonna collect.”
Because I had volunteered to drive the Fitzhumes, Chelsea Ann asked if she could hitch a ride as well, and we agreed to meet in the lobby at 6:30.
I called Dwight, who was on his way out to supper with some other deputies, then scribbled a few words on a note card so that I could remember the sequence of the funny story I wanted to tell on Fitz at his roast tonight. Fresh lipstick and I was good to go.
The sun was more than an hour from setting as we crossed the parking lot to my car. I had planned to pull up to the door, but the others trailed after me. I had just pressed my remote to unlock the door and turned back to see where Martha and Fitz were when a red car dug out from its parking spot several spaces over and hurtled toward us.
For one bewildering moment I felt as if I were back on last night’s sidewalk, watching them film the hit-and-run scene for Port City Blues. Same screeching tires, same noisy acceleration, same female scream, only this time I was the one screaming. The car’s right bumper hit Fitz and tossed him in the air like a sack of potatoes. He landed against Martha, who went sprawling to the pavement, too, her white suit suddenly splashed with blood.
Without touching the brakes, the driver careened down the drive and out onto the street that ran the length of the island, narrowly missing the gateposts.
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