Christmas Mourning

by Margaret Maron

  I knew that meant she hadn’t seen whatever she braked and swerved for till the last minute.

  We got to Aldcroft’s Funeral Home a little before seven and the spacious parking lot was completely filled. Cars lined both sides of the street.

  “You dressed warm enough to walk a couple of blocks,” Dwight asked, “or you want me to let you out in front?”

  I told him I was fine to walk, but I was wishing for fur-lined boots instead of thin heels by the time we reached the entrance. At most large funerals, the line is out the door and down the sidewalk, but tonight’s temperature hovered in the thirties and everyone had squeezed inside. The line began in the front lobby, stretched all the way to the far reaches of the building, and doubled back on itself.

  From experience, we knew that it would be at least ninety minutes before we could work our way to the parlor where Sarah and Malcolm would be standing next to their daughter’s open casket.

  Aldcroft’s is the nicest of the local funeral homes. Outside, it looks like Tara, with fluted columns that sit on the stone terrace and rise to a classic pediment, all painted a dazzling white that glowed in the floodlights artfully hidden among the boxwood foundation plantings. Inside was hushed elegance, from the crystal chandelier eight feet above our heads to the thick pearl gray carpet beneath our feet. Gilt-framed portraits of three generations of Aldcroft morticians looked out from walls covered in pale pink silk.

  Large floor pots of bright red poinsettias swathed in gold foil acknowledged the season, and tall white electric candles rose from sprays of holly that looked so real I had to touch a leaf to realize it wasn’t. Despite the crush of bodies, there was no laughter or light talk, and the décor did nothing to disperse the funeral home smell, a mixture of air freshener and a vague aroma that I always associate with refrigerated flowers and greenery. We paused to speak in solemn tones with several people on line there in the lobby, to hug old friends or shake hands depending on the degree of kin or friendship.

  Dwight’s mother and his two sisters came in right behind us. Nancy Faye and Beth had both been in school with Malcolm and Sarah. Miss Emily, of course, had been Mallory’s principal, and she had also taught Sarah when she was in the eighth grade. Tonight she looked a bit drawn and tired from dealing with another student’s death on top of the usual end-of-semester red tape.

  Nancy Faye immediately asked Dwight to try and convince Miss Emily to go out for something to eat instead of standing for so long. “She won’t listen to us.”

  That indomitable woman shook her head. “Stop fussing, Nancy Faye. I’m not hungry.”

  Dwight’s sisters are dears, but they do tend to cluck over Miss Emily like mother hens at times, almost as if in competition for who can show the most concern.

  Duck Aldcroft, courtly and solicitous, offered her one of the couches that lined the lobby. “Why don’t you just sit down there, Mrs. Bryant, and wait for your girls to come back by?”

  “Why, thank you, Duck. It’s been a long day. I believe I will sit for a while.”

  She may have been a bit tired, but I had a feeling that she accepted his offer so she could get away from too much clucking. Either that or she wanted to take the pulse of the community, because no sooner had she crossed to the couch than several people stepped out of line to speak to her.

  “She’ll be worn out by the time we get back to her,” said Beth as several newcomers took their places behind her and the line shuffled forward toward the back halls.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to have supper first?” I asked Miss Emily. “We can go and be back long before Nancy Faye and Beth come through.”

  “Don’t listen to those girls,” she said, her voice crisp with exasperation. “They think everything can be made better with food. I’m not hungry. Just heartsick for the children we keep losing.”

  I stopped to speak to some of my own high school friends whose children were now at West Colleton, then joined Dwight and his sisters.

  As our line turned the first corner, we met Zach and Barbara inching forward with Lee and Emma. Emma’s eyes were red from crying, but Barbara had an arm around her waist, so I gathered that Annie Sue’s advice had worked and there would be no repercussions for stopping by that party Tuesday night.

  I got a warm hug from Zach and an air kiss from Barbara, which made me glad when they turned the corner and we no longer had to make small talk.

  Much of West Colleton’s student body seemed to be there with their somber-faced parents, who had to be thinking that there but for the grace of God they could be the ones standing in Sarah and Malcolm’s shoes.

  In the next half hour, we met and passed several of my nieces and nephews and their friends, and yes, at least half of those little thumbs were texting away on the keys.

  “Emma’s freaking,” Jessica said. “She’s at the entrance of the room and she can see Mallory’s casket and she doesn’t want to go on in.”

  “She should have stayed back here with us,” said Jane Ann.

  “Like Aunt Barbara was gonna let her do that,” said Ruth.

  “Did she confess about the party?” I asked, as the line moved forward.

  They nodded and Jess said, “And it went just like Annie Sue said it would.”

  Another corner turned and there was Ellen Englert Hamilton in full rant mode. She had her back to me and spoke in tones that were clearly meant to be heard by all around her. The teenage boy beside her must have recognized me, for he gave her a nudge, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  “—and then just turned him loose without even the slap on the wrist she’d given the others. Just let him go with nothing but a mealymouthed little lecture after the trooper testified that he was weaving and staggering and—”

  “Mo-ther!” the boy said, turning beet red.

  “Ah, Deborah,” she said, looking not a bit embarrassed. “I was just comparing notes with some of my friends. They’re MADD, too.”

  It took a moment to realize she meant Mothers Against Drunk Driving and not that the women behind her were angry, although from the sharp looks and frowns they were giving me, she might well have meant that, too.

  “I was telling them how you dismissed all the charges against a drunk driver yesterday,” she said coolly.

  “And did you explain that the state hadn’t proved he was over the limit?”

  “Since when does a judge take the word of a drunk against the word of a state trooper?” asked one of the Englert-Hamilton clones.

  “Ever since our Constitution said that someone’s innocent until proven guilty,” I said sweetly. “That’s what it means to be a judge. To decide if there’s enough proof to determine guilt. Did Ellen tell you about the other dozen or so that I did find guilty?”

  “But then you turned around and gave suspended sentences and probation to more than half of them,” Ellen snapped back. “The only way people who abuse alcohol are going to get the message is to give them jail time every time they’re charged.”

  “You honestly think a judge should always rule for the officer even when the evidence doesn’t support him?”

  “Absolutely! If there’s enough for a charge, there’s enough for a conviction. And a conviction should carry jail time.”

  “Oh dear,” I said with mock chagrin. “Does that mean I was derelict because I didn’t send your mother to jail when she was charged with possession of untaxed liquor?”

  Except for the MADD women, everyone within earshot, including Ellen’s son, grinned.

  “That was different and you know it!” Ellen cried, but her cheeks were burning and she seemed only too glad to turn the next corner.

  The MADD women quickly followed.

  Dwight shook his head at the others, who were still smiling. “Can’t take her anywhere,” he told them.

  Before I could pat myself on the back for my smart-alecky putdown of that sanctimonious prisspot, Patsy Denning, my fifth grade teacher, who had listened to the exchange without comment, now drew even with
Dwight and me and she put a firm hand on my arm. In her low sweet voice, she said, “Don’t let the messenger sour you on the message, Deborah. Even though Ellen doesn’t want anybody to drink anything alcoholic ever, the organization itself has helped save a lot of lives.”

  She was right.

  I sighed. “All the same.”

  “I know.” Mrs. Denning’s eyes shone with mischief behind her polished glasses and she squeezed my arm before the line moved on. “All the same, she’s certainly her mother’s daughter, isn’t she?”

  CHAPTER 10

  Christmas is not just a time for festivity and merrymaking. It is more than that. It is a time for the contemplation of eternal things.

  —J. C. Penney

  Eight o’clock had come and gone before we worked our way back to the front lobby, and a good fifty people had entered after us. It would be well after nine before poor Sarah and Malcolm shook the last hand, hugged the last friend, thanked the last person for the words of sympathy.

  We found Miss Emily still surrounded by a cluster of neighbors, former students, and the parents of current students.

  Nancy Faye and Beth had worried that speaking to so many people would have exhausted their mother, but I thought she seemed reenergized when she stood up to join us.

  As we moved through the lobby, the modest wreaths and floral sprays from Mallory’s friends gave way to more elaborate offerings and the chilly smell of refrigerated carnations and greenery grew stronger the closer we got to the main room. Malcolm Johnson and his older brother worked with their father, who owned Triple J, one of the largest insurance companies in the county. The company had been started by Malcolm’s grandfather back when this was a sleepy, sparsely inhabited rural area devoted to small family farms and modest mercantile stores. With so much growth these past thirty years, business had boomed and the Johnsons were now a family of wealth and influence. Between them, Malcolm and his family belonged to most of the civic organizations and they had a large circle of friends, relatives, and important customers.

  All had sent impressive arrangements.

  Interspersed among the flowers were monitor screens set at eye level, and soft, solemn music issued from a single speaker. Eighteen years of Mallory Johnson’s life played out in endless loops of still photographs, from her infancy to just a few weeks ago. One screen was devoted to a silent DVD of Mallory as she arrived at the homecoming game with her court, smiling and waving. Her tiara sparkled beneath the floodlights and she was breathtakingly beautiful and alive.

  Beside us, Miss Emily caught her breath and sudden tears filled her eyes. “Do not do this when y’all bury me,” she whispered urgently. She clasped her daughters’ hands. “You girls hear me? The pictures are sad enough, but this! To see her moving and laughing? Promise me you won’t.”

  We signed the visitors’ book and entered the parlor that was so crowded that it was impossible at first to see the casket. The reception line began with Sarah’s family—her sister and brother, their spouses and children, and then her parents.

  Next came Mallory’s brother Charlie, an awkward young man who seemed to be going through the motions mechanically as I took his hand and murmured my sympathy. He appeared to be about six-three with small, closely set hazel eyes in a long narrow face. It was a pleasant enough face, but clearly Mallory had inherited all the beauty in that family. When his eyes met Dwight’s, he seemed to focus, and for a moment I thought he was going to say something more than “Thank you” to Dwight’s own words of sympathy, but the moment passed and we moved on to Sarah and Malcolm.

  Both seemed emotionally and physically drained. Someone had brought a chair for Malcolm, who sat with hunched shoulders and responded dully to those who tried to console him. Sarah was still on her feet and she teared up again when Miss Emily reached out to hug her. I wondered how she could possibly have any tears left.

  “Bless you for coming,” she murmured as Miss Emily moved on to Malcolm and our turn came to speak. She took Dwight’s hand. “Is there anything more you can tell us, Dwight?”

  He shook his head and his words included Malcolm. “I wish there was, Sarah. Malcolm.”

  “You don’t get it, Dwight. She never touched liquor,” Malcolm said, his voice ragged with pain as he stood to face his old teammate and plead for an answer. “So how did it get in her system? How? Answer me that. Whoever did that to her is as much to blame as the person who made her run off the road, and if I ever find out who—Look at her, man! Is that the face of a drunk?”

  He wrenched Dwight’s arm in an angry explosive gesture that put him close enough to Mallory to touch her. They had dressed her in her homecoming gown and tiara, and whatever injuries had caused her death, her lovely face had been unharmed. Malcolm cupped that ivory-smooth cheek in his hand and his anger dissolved into despair again. “My little girl. My baby. She shouldn’t be lying here. She shouldn’t, Dwight.” He was sobbing now. “She shouldn’t. Oh, God, she shouldn’t!”

  Sarah stepped forward to put her arms around him, her own face crumpled with grief, and Malcolm’s stern-faced father came from the other side. Together they calmed him down and the line moved grimly forward again. Soon we were past Malcolm’s parents, his brother, and the brother’s wife and adult children, then mercifully out of the parlor and back into the lobby.

  Again, there were people we had to speak to as we headed for the door, but we didn’t linger. Outside on the front terrace, the temperature was so near freezing that we quickly said good night to Dwight’s sisters and mother and were turning onto the sidewalk when we realized that Miss Emily had followed us.

  “Mama?” Dwight said.

  “I’ll ride home with you and Deborah,” she said, giving him a meaningful look.

  He was as instantly curious as I was, but she gave us both a warning shake of her head as a cluster of people passed us and murmured, “Good night, Miss Emily. ’Night, Deborah.”

  “Why don’t you two wait here and I’ll go get the car,” he said.

  “I can walk,” she said sharply. “After all that sitting, it feels good to move my legs.”

  Despite her protests, I insisted that Miss Emily ride in front with Dwight, and I think she was glad to be closer to the heat vents. Dwight always grumbles because my car isn’t as roomy as his truck, and with his seat pushed back as far as it would go to accommodate his long legs, I was squeezed in behind his mother.

  As soon as we pulled out onto the street, she turned to Dwight and said, “Was Vicodin in Mallory’s bloodstream when she died?”

  “Where on earth did you get that notion?” he countered.

  “Something I heard tonight,” she said, confirming my earlier suspicion that she had deliberately chosen to sit where everyone would pass. “Whatever one child knows these days, they all seem to know. It’s almost like one of those old Star Trek plots, where every mind is linked together like bees in a hive. I suppose you also know that Mallory went to a party Tuesday night after the game with South Colleton? Kevin Crowder’s house? And that his parents were away?”

  “And?”

  “Kevin’s not a bad kid. Not really. He pushes the boundaries and he gets away with it because he’s nice-looking and has a glib tongue on him. He can make his parents laugh so they don’t rein him in as much as they ought to.” She sighed and loosened the scarf around her neck.

  “Too hot?” Dwight reached for the controls.

  “Not yet. What about you, Deborah?” she asked. “You getting any of this heat?”

  “I can feel my toes again,” I said, “so y’all make it comfortable for yourselves.”

  “The party,” Dwight prodded.

  “The party. Yes. Kevin’s parents had gone over to Greensboro for the night to attend a Christmas concert. His sister’s in the college chorus and she had a solo part. His mother had knee surgery back in the summer and Vicodin was what they gave her for pain. She had pretty much quit taking it, but the drive up and back bothered her knee, and when she got home W
ednesday afternoon and went looking for the prescription bottle in her medicine cabinet, it was gone. It had been there Tuesday morning, because she almost took it with her and then decided that Tylenol would probably be all that she’d need. So she asked Kevin and he had to confess to the party. When they heard about Mallory, they were afraid that she might have been drinking there and that they would be liable, but he swore she hadn’t and all the children I’ve talked to say the same. Mallory didn’t drink, but if someone spiked her drink, then that same someone could have slipped her a Vicodin. They were all over the house, so any of them could have taken the pills. Kevin immediately texted everybody there and let them know what he thought of someone who would steal his mother’s pills. You warm enough now, Deborah?”

  I said I was and she switched off the heater fan and lowered the thermostat. “Remember, Mallory was still in a coma on Wednesday. Nobody had any idea that she’d taken anything except one of those over-the-counter cold medicines.”

  “Benadryl,” Dwight said. “And alcohol would have enhanced its effects.”

  “The thing is, son, that no one’s admitted spiking her Coke while she was still alive. Now that they know it might have slowed her reflexes and helped cause her to wreck the car, they certainly aren’t going to come forward and confess about any pills.”

  She leaned her head back against the seat. “The funeral’s tomorrow at three. Y’all going?”

  “I probably will,” I said. “You want to ride with me?”

  “That would be nice. What about you, Dwight?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry. I promised Cal we’d take my .22 over to the woods back of Seth’s house and see if we could shoot us down some mistletoe. If we have any luck, you want some?”

  “Only if you haven’t shot all the berries off.” There was almost a hint of her old humor in her voice.

  “I’ll send Cal up the tree myself if you promise to tell me whatever else you pick up from the hive mind, okay?”