Rituals of the Season Read online

  CHAPTER 9

  Avoid exclamations; they are in excessively bad taste and are apt to be vulgar words. A lady may express as much polite surprise or concern by a few simple, earnest words, as she can by exclaiming “good Gracious!” “Mercy!” or “Dear me!”

  Florence Hartley, The Ladies’ Book of Etiquette, 1873

  Sunday’s thin sunlight had disappeared beneath dreary gray clouds and the temperature had begun to drop again by the time we gathered on Aunt Zell’s back porch to wave good-bye to Jane and Brix Junior. We were only a few days away from the winter solstice, so here at three o’clock, it was already beginning to feel like twilight.

  “We should get moving, too,” I said, giving Aunt Zell a thank-you hug.

  Dwight’s known Aunt Zell even longer than I have, and as he bent to kiss the cheek she offered, she reached up and patted his. “Have I told you how happy Ash and I are about you and Deborah?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said. “Not exactly.”

  “Well, we are. And I know Sue would be, too. She thought the world of you, Dwight, didn’t she Ash?”

  “She did,” Uncle Ash said solemnly, laying his hand on Dwight’s shoulder. “Miss Zell and I were talking about it last night. You won’t remember this, son, but we were out at the farm one day and you young’uns—you boys anyhow—had a dodgeball game going and Deborah wanted to play. The others said she was too little, but Seth went ahead and picked her for y’all’s team and every time one of the others aimed the ball at her, you or Seth would snatch her out of the way. Sue said you had a kind heart.”

  “Awww,” I said, slipping my hand into Dwight’s. “My hero!”

  He, of course, had gone beet red as he always does when he’s complimented to his face.

  Reid grinned. “Even then he knew.”

  He, too, kissed Aunt Zell good-bye, then said to us, “If y’all want to follow me over to the office, I’ll see if I can find Dad’s files on that Hurst woman.”

  “Well—” said Dwight.

  “Okay,” I said.

  The partnership of John Claude Lee and Reid Stephenson, Attorneys at Law, occupies a white clapboard house half a block from the courthouse. According to the historical plaque on the front, it was built in 1867 by my mother’s great-grandfather, who was also John Claude’s great-grandfather; and when the family built a larger house away from the center of town, it eventually passed to John Claude’s father, who started the partnership with Brix Junior’s father. Although the exterior is an authentic example of nineteenth-century vernacular architecture, right down to the original wavy glass, black wooden shutters, and gingerbread porch trim, most of the interior has been remodeled completely out of the period. Some of the moldings are original, as are the hardwood floors, but the walls and staircases have been moved several times over the last hundred years.

  There’s a large, airy bedroom suite upstairs that can accommodate out-of-town witnesses and which Reid still uses as his personal cathouse whenever he can sneak the woman of the moment past John Claude’s suspicious eyes.

  Downstairs, John Claude uses the double parlor on the front left and Reid has what was once the formal dining room. The old kitchen and pantries have been converted into a high-tech center for business machines and for the paralegals who assist Sherry Cobb, the office manager, whose own area was carved out of the formal entrance hall when the staircase was relocated to the back.

  My former office on the front right now houses the firm’s law library and my desk has been replaced by a conference table. It’s been four years since I left the firm, but they still haven’t replaced me. I’m not sure if that’s because they can’t agree on a new associate or because John Claude’s holding my space in case I lose the next election.

  While Reid hunted for the Hurst files in the storage room that had been fitted out with steel shelving, Dwight and I went straight on through to the sunroom at the back of the house. With the ease of old familiarity, I opened a set of louvered doors that hid a sink, refrigerator, and microwave. There was a bottle of good white wine in the refrigerator but Dwight passed when I offered it to him, so I made a pot of coffee instead. Julia Lee has always stocked the freezer with gourmet coffee from a grocery in Cameron Village, and we had our choice of several different packets. Soon the rich aroma of Jamaica Blue Mountain filled the sunroom.

  “Smells good,” said Reid as he deposited two heavy archival file boxes on the long deal table. “Just a little milk for me, okay?”

  Normally I would have told him to get it himself. When I worked here, the only people I ever fixed coffee for were my own clients, but since this was technically his coffee, not mine, I found some of those little plastic cups of non-dairy creamers in the refrigerator and handed him a couple, along with a full mug.

  I pulled the lids off the boxes and both were full of manila folders wedged in so tightly that it was difficult to pull one out. No matter what his private thoughts on his client’s guilt or innocence, if the sheer amount of paper was any indication, Brix Junior had certainly gone through all the motions on her behalf.

  I wanted to start reading immediately, but Dwight put the lids back on the boxes I’d opened. “Do I need to sign something for this?” he asked.

  “We might as well do it up right,” Reid said. “Technically, it’s a privilege issue, but this close to her execution date, I really doubt if Martha Hurst would object.”

  He printed off a receipt form and took it back to lay on the shelf after Dwight signed and dated it.

  “You sure Tracy Johnson didn’t say anything to explain why she wanted to see these records?” Dwight asked when Reid returned.

  My cousin rinsed the dust of the storeroom from his hands and dried them on some paper towels. “Sorry, not a clue.”

  “I still don’t understand why she came to you on this,” I said. “You weren’t even out of law school when the trial took place. Why didn’t she ask John Claude?”

  Again he shrugged, but this time there was something else in his eye. Something sheepish?

  “Oh for God’s sake,” I said, slamming my hand so hard on the table that our coffee mugs rattled on the tabletop. “Have you slept with every available woman in this whole damn county?”

  “You were hooked up with Tracy?” Dwight asked, instantly alert.

  Reid held his hands up defensively. “No!”

  I glared at him.

  “Not recently anyhow. Not since last spring. April maybe. Or May. And don’t look at me like that. It was never serious. For either of us. It was just—well, hell, Deborah, don’t tell me you’ve never been there. She didn’t have anyone and I didn’t either. We played by her rules. She wanted to keep it strictly physical—no emotional entanglement—and that was fine with me.”

  I bit back the sarcastic remark on the tip of my tongue and washed it down with a swallow of coffee instead.

  “Not since spring?” Dwight asked. “Who was she with now?”

  “Nobody, far as I know.”

  “Oh please,” I said. “She hadn’t slept with you since May and you didn’t ask why? What? You thought you needed to buy fresh deodorant? Get a different mouthwash? Change the sheets?”

  Dwight laughed and Reid bristled. “Believe it or not, dear cousin, Tracy wasn’t the only woman in Dobbs who—”

  I held up my hand. “Spare me the list. Just tell us who Tracy was seeing now.”

  “I don’t know,” he answered sulkily. “She wouldn’t say. Pissed me a little, though. Telling me she didn’t want any serious entanglements till the baby was older and then giving him an exclusive?”

  “Was he local? Another attorney? Someone from the DA’s office?”

  “Jesus, Deborah! How many ways are there to say ‘I don’t know’? We had sex. Damn good sex, but it came to a crashing halt more than six months ago. She didn’t say then, and for all I know, she’s had six more guys since then, okay?”

  “You don’t know either?” Dwight asked me.

  I shook my hea
d. “But Portland and I are pretty sure she was seeing someone seriously.” I described Tracy’s kitten-in-cream look from last spring and repeated her comment about finding someone right under her nose.

  “You think that’s who shot her?” asked Reid.

  “Too soon to say, but I’m gonna need a DNA sample from you. I’ll send somebody over tomorrow.”

  Reid and I both stared at him in bewilderment.

  “DNA sample?” asked Reid. “But I told you. We hadn’t been together in months.”

  I thought of bedsheets and maybe someone’s toothbrush or shaver in Tracy’s bathroom. Whoever she’d been sleeping with, if she’d had him there in her own place, he would surely have left fingerprints, hair, and God knows what else. “It’s just to eliminate you,” I told Reid. “Right, Dwight?”

  “Right,” he said, but he didn’t quite meet my eyes.

  CHAPTER 10

  A courteous manner, and graceful offer of service are valued highly when offered, and the giver loses nothing by her civility.

  Florence Hartley, The Ladies’ Book of Etiquette, 1873

  Dwight and I had driven over to Dobbs separately, and since I would be holding court in Makely again the next day, that meant we also had to drive back to the farm separately. For once, I didn’t mind. Dwight drives so slowly, I figured I could be halfway through the files that we’d put in the trunk of my car before he turned in to the yard.

  I could have, too, if I hadn’t found April there, sitting cross-legged on the floor as she put a second coat of white enamel on the beer tap’s cabinet doors. The clean cool smell of latex paint filled the room.

  “You didn’t have to do that today.” I set the first of the storage boxes on the dining table. Although Andrew’s nine brothers up from me, April is his third wife and halfway between us in age. In addition to keeping Andrew and their kids in line, she’s also a sixth grade teacher with lesson plans to fill out and theme papers to grade before school recessed for the holidays next week. “It’s Sunday. You should be home with your feet up.”

  Her face was dotted with tiny flecks of white enamel. “No problem. The others will be over tomorrow to put up the rest of the molding, then all that’s left is finishing up the bathroom and painting.” Her tone was innocent but she was having trouble suppressing a grin. “You haven’t heard from Nadine or Doris today, have you?”

  “No, why? What’s going on?”

  Mischief danced in her hazel eyes. “Promise not to tell anyone?”

  “I promise.”

  “Doris got some books from the library yesterday on wedding etiquette.”

  “Oh no,” I groaned.

  She laughed. “Don’t worry. It’s not about you this time. I mean, okay, it might’ve started out that way because Doris wanted to be able to cite chapter and verse if you tried to do something Miss Manners might not approve of.” She stroked her brush across the final door panel and rose gracefully to her feet. “You’re safe, though. She’s been sandbagged by a section on wedding symbols.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Veils.”

  “I’m not wearing a veil.”

  “Good! You know what it symbolizes?”

  I shook my head. “More fairytale princess nonsense? I never gave it much thought.”

  “Well, think about this,” April said. “According to the book, the veil’s supposed to cover the bride’s face until after the vows, when the groom is told he may then kiss his bride. And, of course, he has to first lift off the veil.”

  I followed that train of thought to where it naturally led and then started laughing, too. No wonder April said it was good I didn’t plan to wear one. “You’re kidding,” I said.

  April was shaking her head gleefully. “No, I’m not.”

  “Lifting the veil is symbolic of taking the bride’s virginity?”

  “You got it, sweetie! It’s a stand-in for the hymen. Nadine was mortified when Doris read her that.”

  And then I realized why she was so amused.

  When Nadine’s older daughter got married, Nadine had dressed that—and I quote—“pure white angel” in a full veil and Herman had escorted her down the aisle—this was before he needed a wheelchair. Upon being asked, “Who gives this woman to be married?” he had, as coached by Nadine, replied, “Her mother and I do.” Then he carefully lifted Denise’s veil and folded it back across her head like a halo, kissed her cheek, gave her hand to the groom, and took his place in the front pew next to Nadine, just as they’d rehearsed it all week.

  “So symbolically speaking, Doris made my brother deflower their own daughter right there in church?”

  “Don’t you love it?”

  “Can I please murmur ‘incest’ the next time Nadine gets on my case?”

  “Only if you don’t tell them I was the one told you. Doris swore me to secrecy.” April put the lid back on the paint can and gathered up the newspapers she’d put down to catch any drips. One of her short brown curls was feathered white where it had brushed against the door. “She’s almost as embarrassed as Nadine, because remember when Betsy got married six months later? Doris thought Denise and Herman looked so sweet that she tried her best to talk Betsy and Robert into doing it, too, only Betsy didn’t want to walk down the aisle with a veil covering her face and Robert said he was sure his rough hands would get caught in it and he’d wind up pulling it off her head.”

  We were still giggling when Dwight came through the door, carrying the other file box, the ends of his tie trailing from his jacket pocket.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “I’ll tell you later,” I said.

  “No, you won’t,” said April. “You promised.”

  “I thought it doesn’t count if you tell secrets to your mate.”

  “He’s not officially your mate. Not till the veil is pushed away,” she said, which only set us off again.

  Dwight just shook his head at us and hung his jacket on the back of one of the ladderback chairs.

  “Y’all want to come for supper?” April said as she slipped on her coat and pulled car keys from the pocket. “Andrew and A.K. are cooking a fresh ham on the gas grill.”

  “Thanks, but we’ve got another dinner at Jerry’s tonight,” I told her.

  As she started out the door, April remembered that she’d stopped by the mailbox yesterday and picked up my mail, but had then forgotten to give it to me, so I walked out to the car with her. She slid into the driver’s seat and handed me a stack of envelopes, junk mail, and catalogs through the open window.

  “You’re getting circles under your eyes,” she said, giving me a critical look. “Don’t let yourself get so tired you wind up at the altar too exhausted to give a straight answer.”

  “I won’t,” I promised.

  “You and Dwight need to get to bed early tonight.” She thought about what she was saying and grinned. “Or is that part of the problem?”

  I drew myself up in mock indignation. “Why, Miz April, I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about.”

  “Yeah, and if we believe that, Denise has a veil she’ll lend you.”

  Back in the house, Dwight had lit a fire in the hearth and was now stretched out on the couch to watch the end of a ball game. Suffused with happiness and feeling domestic as hell, I sat down on a nearby lounge chair to open my mail. Among the Christmas cards was one from Judge Bill Neely and his wife, Anne-Kemp, from over in Asheboro. Across the bottom of the card, he’d written, “I hear the Barrister Boys got to play at one of the parties for you. I demand equal time. How about I pipe you down the aisle?”

  The Barrister Boys (a.k.a. “Fast Eddie and the Scumbags”) are a band of attorneys in Bill’s district. I’m very fond of Bill and I’m told he’s actually as competent on the Irish pipes as his friends are on guitar and banjo, but the only time I want to hear bagpipes is outdoors.

  From a distance.

  Like maybe two or three miles.

  Dwight smiled sleepily when I
read him Bill’s mock offer. “I want to be there when you run that one past Nadine and Doris.”

  There were cards from friends I hadn’t seen since law school, and cards from my West Coast brothers, who had promised to come east for the wedding and stay on for Christmas.

  “It’ll be good to see the whole family together again,” Frank’s wife Mae wrote. She enclosed pictures of their grandchildren.

  One card showered a cascade of silver confetti in my lap when I opened it. It was from my carny niece, who was sorry their schedule wouldn’t permit them to come up from Florida in time, “but we’re playing a Shriner’s Christmas festival then.”

  I slit open another envelope and caught my breath when I saw the picture inside. Mei Johnson was dressed in a red velvet dress, white tights, and a fur-trimmed Santa hat, and she held a white plush dog in her pudgy little hands. “Hope you and Dwight have a good one, too,” Tracy had written.

  Too?

  I studied the picture through a glaze of tears. Here I was with my life still opening up before me like a stocking full of Christmas surprises while Mei’s and Tracy’s were both finished. No more surprises. No more Christmases.

  The envelope was postmarked Thursday. I turned to show it to Dwight, but he was sound asleep.

  I hadn’t yet found a casual way to ask him what his detectives found in Tracy’s house, but if it was evidence of a lover, where was he? Why wasn’t he camped out in Dwight’s office demanding action and results?

  “More women are killed by their mates than by strangers,” said the worldly pragmatist who lurks in the back of my head and always sees the dark lining of every silver cloud.