Rituals of the Season Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All chapter epigraphs are from The Ladies’ Book of Etiquette by Florence Hartley. Boston: Lee and Shephard, 1873.

  Copyright © 2005 by Margaret Maron

  All rights reserved.

  Mysterious Press

  Warner Books

  Hachette Book Group, USA

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroupUSA.com.

  First eBook Edition: August 2005

  ISBN: 978-0-446-50952-7

  Contents

  DEBORAH KNOTT NOVELS

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  EPIGRAPH

  DEBORAH KNOTT’S FAMILY TREE

  PROLOUGE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  Deborah Knott novels:

  RITUALS OF THE SEASON

  HIGH COUNTRY FALL

  SLOW DOLLAR

  UNCOMMON CLAY

  STORM TRACK

  HOME FIRES

  KILLER MARKET

  UP JUMPS THE DEVIL

  SHOOTING AT LOONS

  SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT

  BOOTLEGGER’S DAUGHTER

  Sigrid Harald novels:

  FUGITIVE COLORS

  PAST IMPERFECT

  CORPUS CHRISTMAS

  BABY DOLL GAMES

  THE RIGHT JACK

  DEATH IN BLUE FOLDERS

  DEATH OF A BUTTERFLY

  ONE COFFEE WITH

  Non-series:

  LAST LESSONS OF SUMMER

  BLOODY KIN

  SUITABLE FOR HANGING

  SHOVELING SMOKE

  For Natalie Jeanette Maron,

  our longed-for, unexpected, totally welcomed bonus

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My thanks to Sheila Kay Adams for her cousin’s definition of spinsters and old maids; to Louise Guardino of the A/B Afterburners for enlightening me about softball bats; to Aria and John McElhenny, who let me borrow a clever feature from their own wedding reception; and to Daniel “Chipp” Bailey, Chief Deputy Sheriff of Mecklenburg County, NC, for his technical expertise.

  District Court Judges Shelly S. Holt and Rebecca W. Blackmore, of the 5th Judicial District Court (New Hanover and Pender Counties, NC), and Special Superior Court Judge John Smith continue to keep me updated on North Carolina law and court procedures. I owe them more than I can ever repay.

  Margaret Maron

  Johnston County, NC

  Many believe that politeness is but a mask worn in the world to conceal bad passions and impulses, and to make a show of possessing virtues not really existing in the heart; thus, that politeness is merely hypocrisy and dissimulation. Do not believe this; be certain that those who profess such a doctrine are themselves practising the deceit they condemn so much . . . True politeness is the language of a good heart.

  Florence Hartley, The Ladies’ Book of Etiquette, 1873

  DEBORAH KNOTT’S FAMILY TREE

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 10

  The white sedan was later than expected, so late that the driver of the nondescript car parked on the shoulder was beginning to wonder if something had already happened to her. Then suddenly, there she was, zipping along in the fast lane of the interstate, her usual ten miles an hour over the speed limit, as if North Carolina’s traffic laws did not apply to her.

  You’d think somebody in her position would be a little more observant of the law, the driver thought wryly, pulling back onto the highway. After all, she’s sent people to jail for stuff not much more serious than speeding.

  In half an hour, the daily reverse flow from Raleigh would start to clog this stretch of highway, but right now traffic was still light, and in less than a minute both cars were side by side, traveling at the same speed.

  The thirty-something woman appeared to be singing along with her radio when the second car pulled even. She glanced over casually, then her eyes widened in recognition and she smiled as she powered down her side window with a motion for the other to do the same.

  “Hey!” she called cheerfully, her eyes flicking back and forth from the road ahead to the car beside her. “How’s it going?”

  “Going good right now.”

  The revolver came up to shoulder level and the woman’s eyes widened in disbelief. Before she could flinch or dodge, a single shot pierced her jugular just above the small green-and-red cloisonné Christmas wreath pinned to the collar of her white cashmere sweater.

  There was one quick glimpse of jetting blood, the sound of screeching brakes, then her car swerved away and crashed headlong into an overpass abutment.

  The other driver touched the accelerator and sped on through the early twilight without a single look back in the rearview mirror.

  Traveling north on the interstate in his unmarked sedan, Colleton County Sheriff’s Deputy Mike Castleman had his eye out for Judge Deborah Knott’s car. Word had come through the dispatcher from Major Bryant that the judge was unaccountably late and not answering her cell phone, so if anyone should happen to spot her . . .

  No sign of the judge’s car, but up ahead Castleman did see one that matched the profile of the more brazen drug traffickers who frequented this stretch of interstate through North Carolina. Only one person in the car, so he didn’t bother calling for the usual backup. He had just switched on the blue lights hidden behind his radiator grille when a second call came through that a white Lexus had crashed into the abutment where Possum Creek Road crossed over I-95.

  He immediately thumbed his mike. “I’ll catch it, Faye.”

  The suspect car ahead had obediently pulled over, but with his blue lights still flashing and his siren now wailing as well, Castleman gave a go-ahead wave to the sullen-looking Hispanic inside, made a U-turn across the grassy median, and headed south.

  At the crash site, several civilian cars had stopped. Their passengers milled around, trying to keep warm while they waited for professionals to arrive and take charge. A tall man strode forward when he spotted the badge on Castleman’s heavy leather jacket.

  “I was a medic in Iraq,” he told the deputy. His warm breath made little puffs of steam in the chilled air. “The driver’s dead but there’s a baby girl in the backseat that looks to be hanging on by her toenails.”

  Baby girl? Oh, Jeeze! thought Castleman, who had not noticed the car seat until that moment. The bottom fell out of his stomach. His own daughter was nineteen, but he never came upon a situation like this without immediately thinking of her, and he was stricken by the sight of that lolling head.

  More sirens and flashing lights lit up the darkening evening as an ambulance and a patrol car swerved to a stop. Red and blue strobes flashed over the car’s bloody interior and made the white leather seats and steering wheel look as if they had been splashed with chocolate syrup then dusted with powdered sugar when the air bag popped open.

  In t
he backseat, several gaily wrapped Christmas packages lay jumbled by the impact. The medic pointed to a small one about six inches square.

  “I don’t know what’s in it, but it’s heavy as hell and it was on the kid’s chest when I got here. Probably what knocked her out.”

  A large bruise had begun to darken the forehead of the baby girl buckled into the car seat. Otherwise, she did not move.

  The driver’s face was obscured by the deflated air bag and the front end of the car was so badly smashed that the baby was already on an ambulance to the hospital before they could get the car pried open enough to get her out.

  “Oh dear God!” said one of the deputies when the dead driver’s face came into view. “Y’all see who this is?”

  “Christ almighty!” swore Castleman, peering over his shoulder. “I was in court with her just this morning.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Punctuality is the mark of politeness.

  Florence Hartley, The Ladies’ Book of Etiquette, 1873

  I had adjourned court a little early that bleak December afternoon after taking care of everything I could without a prosecutor (the assistant DA had a late doctor’s appointment), but I’d heard that the party outlet in Makely sold inexpensive wedding favors and, yeah, yeah, with less than two weeks till the big day, you’d think I would have already taken care of every detail worth mentioning.

  Wrong.

  Having avoided it for this long, I was now so hooked on this whole wedding thing that I was like a junkie who needs just one more fix. Although my sisters-in-law didn’t know it, what I planned to wear was already hidden in an empty closet at Aunt Zell’s house, along with my shoes, gloves, and the dark red velvet cloak that would ward off December’s chilly winds going to and from the First Baptist Church over in Dobbs. (That the hooded cloak flattered the hell out of my dark blond coloring was purely incidental.) My bouquet had been ordered. The country club had been booked for a simple champagne reception, the gold band I would place on Dwight Bryant’s finger had been engraved and entrusted to Portland Brewer, my matron of honor, and when I left home that morning, I was completely caught up on all my thank-you notes. (One good thing about a Christmas wedding is that greeting cards can do double duty.)

  The only item lacking was the little bride and groom for the cake. And trust me, I do know they’re tacky and not exactly cutting edge, but my bossy, opinionated family wouldn’t feel it was a real wedding cake if I only had rosebuds and ribbon icing. I’d ordered a cake topper off the Internet—one in which the groom was dressed in a formal blue police uniform—but it still hadn’t come. Kate Bryant, Dwight’s artistic sister-in-law, had volunteered to paint the uniform brown like the one Dwight would be wearing and to change the bridal gown, too, but she was going to need a couple of days to work her magic and one of my own sisters-in-law had suggested I might could find something suitable at the Makely store.

  “Sorry,” said the clerk. “You should have tried us back in the spring.”

  “Back in the spring, I didn’t know I was going to need one,” I told her.

  At that point, I should have walked out of the store and headed straight back to Dobbs, but I saw so many cool stocking stuffers for my numerous nieces and nephews that I completely lost track of the time. It didn’t help that traffic on the interstate was so backed up by an accident or something that I got off at the next exit and had to negotiate unfamiliar back roads.

  “Dammit, Deb’rah, where’ve you been?” growled my groom-to-be when I pulled into a slot in front of his apartment well after dark and nearly ninety minutes later than I’d promised when we talked at noon.

  Dwight Bryant and I first met on the day I was born—he remembers it; I don’t—but until three months ago I’d always thought of him as just another of my eleven older brothers. Surprised the hell out of me when pragmatic lust abruptly morphed into a romantic love as fiery and all-consuming as a Nora Roberts novel, especially when Dwight confessed that he’d been hiding his true feelings for me behind his honorary-brother role for years.

  Doesn’t stop him from still yelling at me like one of my brothers, though. Bareheaded, no jacket, he was pacing back and forth on the windswept landing in front of his second-floor apartment when I got there, and he made it down the steps before I could get my keys out of the ignition.

  I tried to explain about court finishing early and how I then got sidetracked by Christmas shopping and after that, the traffic so that—

  He didn’t want to hear it. “And you couldn’t call? Or remember to switch your phone on so I could call you?”

  I admitted that I’d absentmindedly left my phone in the pocket of my robe, which was now hanging in an office at the Makely courthouse, but he caught me in his arms and held me tightly against him as if to make sure that I was whole and unharmed. For such a big guy, he can be surprisingly gentle. His hands and cheeks were like ice. Felt good, though, and my body started to throb and buzz until I realized that part of the vibration came from the cell phone hooked on his belt.

  With one arm still around me, he unclipped the phone, checked to see who it was, and said, “Yeah, Faye?”

  I didn’t hear what the dispatcher was saying, but there was nothing ambiguous about his reply. “Tell them to disregard that BOLO. She’s here now.”

  I couldn’t believe it. He’d done a be-on-the-lookout for me?

  I twisted away from his arm, grabbed the small bag of groceries from the front seat of my car, and stormed up the stairs to his apartment.

  “That was totally uncalled for,” I said angrily, when Dwight finally followed me inside. I had flung my coat across the back of his couch and now I was slamming cupboard doors as I pulled out pots and pans.

  “I haven’t accounted to anyone since I was eighteen,” I told him, “and I’ll be damned if I’m going to start toeing some imaginary mark now just because we’re getting married.”

  He closed the door quietly against the chill December night and stood there white-faced, staring at me, until I finally realized that he had probably spent the past hour remembering how close I came to dying the last time I didn’t answer my cell phone for five hours.

  I let go of my anger and went to him.

  “Hey,” I said softly, standing on tiptoe to brush his lips with mine. “Nothing’s going to happen to me ever again. I’m going to be here safe and sound for the rest of your life, but not if you try to keep me in bubble wrap, okay?”

  “I wish to God I could,” he said and kissed me with such vehemence that I knew something bad had happened.

  “What is it?” I asked. “What else did Faye tell you?”

  “That traffic backup you ran into on the interstate just now? It was Tracy Johnson. She smashed into an overpass.”

  “What? Is she okay?”

  He shook his head. “Sounds like she died instantly.”

  I stood there with my mouth open. Brisk, efficient Tracy Johnson? The tall and slender ADA who loves high heels as much as I do and who tries to hide her beauty and brains behind the ugliest pair of horn-rim glasses in eastern North Carolina?

  Impossible!

  “I just saw her,” I protested. “She prosecuted today’s calendar.”

  “I’m sorry, shug,” he said.

  “What about Mei?” I asked. “Tracy left court early because Mei had a doctor’s appointment for an ear infection.”

  “She was in the car, too. They’re going to air-vac her to Chapel Hill, but it doesn’t sound good.”

  Three years ago, Tracy got tired of waiting around for a man who wasn’t intimidated by her height or her mind and decided to adopt from China. It had taken her two years to complete all the paperwork, and she was utterly besotted by the baby, who was just beginning to walk and talk. Portland and I and some of the women from the DA’s office had given her a shower once the adoption went through.

  She was a few years younger and we were never hugely close, but I did respect her. She was an excellent prosecutor, efficient, prepared
, and fairer than most who just want the win, no matter what.

  “Does Doug know?” I asked. Doug Woodall is our district attorney and Tracy’s boss.

  “Doubt it,” Dwight said. “They just ID’d her and family takes precedence. Did she have any?”

  “I’m not sure. I know her parents are dead, but I think she has a sister or brother over in Widdington. Or maybe it was a cousin that came to her shower when she brought Mei home from China this spring.”

  Tears spilled down my cheeks and my heart was sore just thinking about that poor little baby. Unwanted by her birth mother, now she’d lost the adoptive mother who adored her. What would happen to her?

  Dwight’s cell phone buzzed again. “Yeah, Faye?”

  His face went even grimmer as he listened, then he said, “Give me the coordinates again. And call Jamison and Denning. Tell them to meet me there.”

  Jack Jamison’s one of the new detectives he’s training and Percy Denning is Colleton County’s crime scene specialist.

  “What now?” I asked as he holstered his gun and reached for the heavy winter jacket hanging on a peg by the door.

  “The wreck wasn’t an accident,” he said. “The EMTs say Tracy was shot.”

  “Shot?” All sorts of wild possibilities tumbled through my mind. I tried to think what was in season now. “Tracy died because some dumb hunter wasn’t paying attention?”

  Dwight shrugged. “The ROs say it looks like a deliberate act.”

  ROs—responding officers.

  “Why?”

  “Won’t know till I get there, shug.” He zipped his jacket, gave me a quick kiss and was gone.

  CHAPTER 2

  At these smaller dinner companies, avoid apologizing for anything, either in the viands or the arrangement of them. You have provided the best your purse will allow, prepared as faultlessly as possible; and you will only gain credit for mock modesty if you apologize for a well-prepared, well-spread dinner.

  Florence Hartley, The Ladies’ Book of Etiquette, 1873