Christmas Mourning

by Margaret Maron

  When all the plea bargains were out of the way, there were two trials wherein the defendants pled not guilty. I found the first one guilty but the second dodged the bullet.

  He had refused to take the Breathalyzer test, “Which was his constitutional right,” his attorney, Zack Young, reminded me. “The state has to prove that he was appreciably impaired beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  The officer who stopped him testified that the defendant had passed the field sobriety tests. “Not perfectly, Your Honor, but all right.”

  It was the same with his driving. Under Zack’s pointed questioning, the officer had to admit that he wasn’t all over the road, only weaving a bit inside the lines of his lane.

  When both sides rested, I said, “Sir, I suspect you had more than the two beers you told us about, but that’s not the evidence before me, and the law requires me to rule on the evidence, not on what I suspect. You were probably impaired and you shouldn’t have been driving, but under the law, you were not appreciably impaired, so I find you not guilty. You are free to go.”

  The man immediately turned to Zack and vigorously shook his hand.

  Zack’s probably the best defense attorney in the district even though he likes to play the shambling good ol’ boy who probably thinks a tort is a kind of turtle. His fee was going to prove an expensive lesson in the cost of drunk driving for this defendant.

  Throughout the session, Ellen Hamilton had taken extensive notes in a black leatherbound notebook, and there was a look of disapproval on her face when I pronounced the last man not guilty.

  She caught up with me out in the hall. “How do you know it wasn’t someone weaving all over the road that caused poor little Mallory Johnson to wreck her car?” she demanded.

  “I don’t,” I said. “Do you?”

  “No, but why else would she have crashed on a straight stretch of road? She wasn’t speeding and she sure wasn’t drinking.”

  “I guess we’ll never know, will we?”

  “Don’t be too sure. And if it turns out to be somebody you bleeding hearts let slide by—”

  “Gosh, Ellen,” I said, glancing pointedly at my watch. “I’d love to stay and talk to you about it, but I’m already late for an appointment.”

  No way was I going to tell her my appointment was with a baby girl who would turn one year old next Tuesday. Carolyn Deborah Brewer was bright-eyed and intelligent, but she hadn’t quite grasped the concept of clocks yet.

  CHAPTER 6

  “That they are what they are, do not blame me!”

  —A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens

  Lunch was a steaming cup of tomato soup with slices of spinach quiche for Portland and me. The baby had strained carrots and spinach for her entrée and pureed peaches for dessert. Throughout the meal, we played peekaboo with my napkin and her bib till Portland threatened to send us from the table before we knocked something over.

  She and Avery are both attorneys and their home is only a few short blocks from the courthouse, so I get to see little Carolyn often enough that she’s not shy with me. She was born about eighteen hours after her mother walked down the aisle in a red velvet matron of honor dress last December—my brothers had a pool going as to whether or not the baby would arrive in the middle of our wedding. Like most babies, she was more interested in the paper and bow on the brightly wrapped birthday gift I had brought than in the adorable plaid taffeta dress inside the box.

  I cleared away our lunch dishes while Portland put Carolyn down for a nap, then we carried our tea glasses out to the sunroom, where we could kick back and put our feet up on the large wrought iron table that was surrounded by mismatched white wicker chairs with their comfy red-and-white cushions. Trays of crisp red geraniums lined the wide low ledges beneath the windows that formed two walls of the room. Funky pots of greenery were clustered in the corners—ferns, dieffenbachia, schefflera, and a snake plant that had belonged to her mother and was now about six feet tall. Strings of small clear lights twinkled amid the plants and cinnamon scented candles gave a Christmassy smell to the air.

  Table, wicker chairs, and funky pots had all been picked up at flea markets or garage sales and had been refurbished to make this comfortable room uniquely Portland’s. I knew for a fact that one of those pots had come from the landfill outside town. To Avery’s deep embarrassment, his wife would rather go Dumpster diving than shop in a regular store. After all these years, he still doesn’t get it that Portland’s junking expeditions are the equivalent of his fly-fishing—the thrill of the chase, never knowing if you’re going to snag an old boot or a nice rainbow trout.

  “Where has the time gone?” Portland moaned as she sank into one of the chairs and leaned her head back against the colorful cushion. Her thick dark curly hair could use a trim and her bright red nails were due a manicure, two bits of grooming that were never neglected in the pre-baby days.

  “I can’t believe she’s going to be a year old next Tuesday. Did you see the way she pulls up now? She’ll be walking by her birthday. At the rate time’s flying, I’m gonna turn around next week and she’ll be off to kindergarten.”

  I toasted my namesake’s pulling-up with my glass of iced tea. “And begging for her driver’s license about six weeks after that.”

  “Well, she can beg till she’s blue in the face. Avery says she’s not getting the keys to any car till she’s twenty-five.” Her face darkened. “Wasn’t it awful about Sarah and Malcolm Johnson’s daughter? Have you heard anything about funeral arrangements?”

  “Not yet. I haven’t even heard how it actually happened. You?”

  “Not really. At the office, someone said that she’d been to a Christmas party and left early because she was getting a cold.”

  “Emma’s on the cheerleading team and said Mallory texted them a reminder about a photography session for the yearbook on Thursday. Probably one of the last things she did before she crashed.”

  “Cell phones!” Portland exclaimed. “There ought to be a governor or something that would keep them from working while the car’s moving.”

  “You invent one the kids can’t disconnect or override and I’ll invest in it,” I told her, and added wryly, “You could put it on the same circuit as the seat belt alarm.”

  She smiled, knowing how much I dislike the way mine starts its annoying ding-ding-ding the instant the car moves. I always put it on before I get up to speed, but there are times when I can’t click it right away and the damn thing gets increasingly louder, like an angry teacher shaking her finger at me for ditching school or talking back. I tried to get my mechanic to disable it, but he just laughed at me and shook his head. “Sorry, Deborah. It’s connected to stuff you need to keep the motor running.”

  “So how are you going to celebrate?” I asked. “You’re not giving her a birthday party, are you?”

  Portland shook her head. “Aunt Zell invited Mom and Dad for Sunday dinner and Avery and I are bringing the cake and ice cream. Avery’s parents are driving up from Wilmington on Tuesday morning to spend Christmas with us and they’ll babysit that night so we can go to the dinner dance out at the country club. What about you and Dwight?”

  “What about us?”

  “C’mon, Deborah!” she said impatiently. “Monday’s your first anniversary. Don’t tell me you’re skipping that, too?”

  The “too” referred to the fact that Dwight and I still hadn’t had a proper honeymoon. We didn’t plan not to have one, but between Jonna’s death, his job, my work, and Cal’s school, there just hadn’t been a convenient time to get away.

  “If you aren’t going to celebrate on Monday, why don’t you come out to the club with us on Tuesday?”

  Dwight’s so good on a dance floor that I was immediately tempted. “But won’t they be sold out by now?”

  “Probably, but I’ll call the manager and ask him to pull up two more chairs to our table. He owes me one. Do it, girlfriend. It’ll be like old times. Fun.”

  I reached for my purs
e. “Okay. We said we weren’t giving each other anniversary presents, but we haven’t been dancing in ages. Take a check?”

  “I know where you live, don’t I?”

  She told me how much the tickets would be, I wrote the check, and talk turned to Christmas plans, crowded calendars, the cards we’d sent, and the old friends we’d heard from. It was the usual lazy give-and-take of a friendship that went back to childhood.

  My Aunt Zell is married to her Uncle Ash, and we both smiled when she asked if I’d received a fruitcake yet. “I cut a piece for supper last night and the fumes almost knocked me over. I thought you said Mr. Kezzie had quit making the stuff.”

  “That’s what he tells me, but Mother once said that whiskey-making was the only thing he ever lied to her about.” I shook my head. “So who knows? If he’d lie to her, he wouldn’t think twice about me.”

  But one mention of Daddy’s illicit activities led to another, and she giggled when I told her about Ellen Englert Hamilton being in my courtroom this morning. She knew about Mrs. Englert’s run-in with the law over that jar of white lightning that had been found in the Englert basement, and she had been present when I dumped a full glass of cold water, ice cubes and all, in Rudolph Englert’s lap after he told me his mother wanted us to cool it.

  She hooted with remembered glee. “And then Dwight and Reid gave you a package of those little frozen sausages the next day.”

  “All the same,” I said, “she thinks the Johnson girl could have been run off the road by a drunk driver. She said it happened on a straightaway. Wonder what caused her to flip over like that?”

  Portland shook her curly head. “Could’ve been a deer or possum or something and she swerved to miss it, then overcorrected. What does Dwight say?”

  “He hasn’t. He’ll probably get the trooper’s report today, so I’ll ask him tonight.”

  “Poor Malcolm and Sarah,” Portland said, unconsciously echoing my nieces.

  I was surprised to realize that she knew them fairly well since they had been older than us back in school.

  “Not Malcolm so much,” she admitted, “but I got to know Sarah better when her son wanted to change his name back to Barefoot. I drew up the petition for him last spring and did all the official notifications.”

  I was curious. “Why? What was that about?”

  “The usual. Two mule-stubborn males butting heads. He was jealous of Mallory—claimed that Malcolm had never really treated him equally. And it didn’t help that his Barefoot grandparents had been wanting him to do it and come live with them ever since he turned eighteen. Not that he needed much urging for the name change. I don’t know what finally pushed his buttons, but he really turned against his dad. And he wasn’t too happy with his mom either. He thought Mallory was spoiled. That Malcolm gave her more and let her get away with more than he ever got.”

  “Was he right?”

  “Probably. She was daddy’s little girl all right. Anything she ever wanted, he’d bust his britches to get it for her. All she had to do is look wistful, Sarah said. Just between you and me, I think she was a little bit jealous herself.”

  “Nobody speaks ill of the dead,” I said, “but that’s the first negative thing I’ve heard anyone say about her.”

  “I’m not speaking negatively of Mallory,” Portland protested. “Just because Malcolm doted on her and wanted to give her the moon and a few stars doesn’t mean she was spoiled. She seemed like a sweet kid and she tried like hell to talk Charlie out of changing his name, but he’d made up his mind and wouldn’t back down.”

  She glanced at my empty glass and emptied her own in one swallow. “Let me get you some more tea.”

  I glanced at my watch. As always when we get together like this, I had stayed longer than I planned.

  “Gotta run,” I said.

  Before she could urge me to stay, the baby woke up from her nap and began to cry.

  “Call me,” I said and let myself out.

  CHAPTER 7

  Chill December brings the sleet,

  Blazing fire and Christmas treat.

  —Traditional rhyme

  While I may—

  Okay, correction: while I do grumble about the new NutriGood store that has taken over a corner of a crossroads less than five miles from the farm, I have to admit that I like being able to stop off on my way home. Dwight likes it because he doesn’t have to drive into Raleigh for the coffee beans, cheeses, and store-baked breads that can’t be found in Dobbs.

  Unlike me, he doesn’t mind shopping for groceries. In fact, when he first proposed, one of the reasons he gave for wanting to get married was that he was tired of buying single-serving packages. I’m perfectly happy to let him be the one who keeps the pantry and freezer stocked, yet there I was that Friday afternoon, roaming the endless aisles, hunting for the stuff we don’t normally keep on hand—confectioners’ sugar, candy dots, little cinnamon red-hots, and a four-pack of food coloring. Ever since they were old enough to dump sugar into flour and use a cutter on the flattened dough, my nieces and I have spent the Saturday before Christmas making fancy cookies together.

  As long as I was in the candy aisle, I picked up a package of old-fashioned hard candies for the brilliant-cut glass candy dish Aunt Sister gave us for a wedding gift. Mother had given it to her several Christmases before I was born, “but now that I’ve got the sugar diabetes, I ain’t got no use for it anymore and I thought you might like to have it, honey,” she had told me when I unwrapped it last December.

  One way or another, I managed to fill a basket, and as I loaded the groceries in the trunk of my car, Dwight called to say he was running a little late. “Can you pick up Cal?”

  “No problem,” I said, but I thought I heard something odd in his voice. “Anything wrong?”

  “I’ll tell you about it tonight,” he hedged.

  “You will be home for supper, won’t you?” I asked.

  “There by six-thirty,” he promised.

  The big round table in the playroom at Kate’s house was littered with bits of lace, satin ribbons, colorful scraps of fabric, and sprinkles of gold and silver glitter. A cake box full of craftsy odds and ends had been upended. While Mary Pat rummaged for a second white feather, little R.W. gnawed on a set of plastic keys and watched the action from his high chair. (I’ve already promised him that I’ll put in a good word with Carolyn when they’re both a little older.)

  “You’re just in time to make a tree ornament,” Kate said as she ushered me in.

  “So I see,” I said, smiling at the young woman across the table who seemed to be in charge of the scissors.

  Erin Gladstone is the live-in nanny that Kate hired when she realized that she was hovering too closely over her variegated brood instead of getting back to work designing the fabrics for which she had made a name for herself in the fashion industry. In addition to Mary Pat, her orphaned young cousin who’s six months older than Cal, there’s Jake, her son from her first marriage, and R.W., her almost one-year-old son with Rob. This past summer, she and Rob obtained legal adoptions for Mary Pat and Jake so that all three kids now have the same last name and the older two can legitimately call them Mom and Dad, something the children had already begun to do before the adoption.

  “See my wooden soldier,” Cal said, proudly holding out a peg-type clothespin he had painted blue and topped with a red chenille ball above a tiny face he had inked on with a fine-pointed Sharpie. “It doesn’t need a hanger ’cause his legs will let him sit on a branch.”

  He demonstrated on the tree that stood nearby, another artificial one somewhat smaller in scale than the large one out in the living room. This one was decorated with wood and plastic ornaments sturdy enough to survive if a ball crashed into it.

  “Look at my angel, Aunt Deborah!” Mary Pat said. Her clothes peg had flowing yellow yarn hair, a tinsel halo, and a robe of white lace.

  “How can it be an angel if it doesn’t have wings?” five-year-old Jake asked scornfully.<
br />
  “It’ll have wings just as soon as I find some more white feathers,” Mary Pat told him, plucking one from the pile

  “So what are you making?” I asked Jake.

  He had inserted a strip of green cardstock with rounded tips into the slot of the clothespin and was gluing a second one in place above the first so that it looked vaguely like an old biplane.

  “A dragonfly,” he told me earnestly. “These are its wings.”

  Kate had used red wool to make a skinny Santa Claus with a white cotton beard, and it took me right back to childhood when Portland and I had spent a whole summer making clothespin dolls. My fingers itched to dive in, but I had planned to make a beef stew for supper and I knew I’d lose track of time if I ever took the clothespin Kate held out to me.

  “Sorry,” I told her, “but we need to go let Bandit out and get started on supper.” I smiled at Cal. “Bookbag? Jacket?”

  While he gathered up his things, Kate said, “Rob and I plan to take the children to the light show over in Garner tomorrow night. Okay if Cal comes?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Call me and one of us will run him over.”

  Back at the house, Cal helped me carry in the groceries, then took Bandit out for a romp around the yard while I browned chunks of chuck with a large chopped onion. I poured off the excess grease, stirred in some flour until it was nice and brown, then whisked in enough water to cover the meat. When it came to a boil, I dropped in a bay leaf, put the lid on, and turned the heat down low. Once the meat was tender enough, I would add carrots, peas, and potatoes.

  By the time Dwight got home and hung his jacket on a peg beside the door, the kitchen was redolent with those homey aromas. I stirred up some dough for dumplings, dropped them onto the surface of the stew, and put the lid back on to let them steam while I set the table and started a load of laundry.

  “Erin’s going to take us to Raleigh to see Santa Claus on Monday,” Cal said when we sat down to eat.