Christmas Mourning

by Margaret Maron

  Hope you know what you’re doing, Bryant,” said chief district court judge F. Roger Longmire when he signed the search warrant fifteen minutes later. “His daddy’s got a lot of influence up in that end of the county.”

  “I know,” Dwight said. In addition to Richards and Denning, he had pulled McLamb off his search for more Wentworth enemies and radioed a couple of patrol cars to rendezvous with them a mile from the Johnson home.

  “Maybe I’ll ride along with you,” said Sheriff Poole when Dwight briefed him on the situation. “If it goes down like you think, I’ll bring him back to Dobbs, see he gets his lawyer, and you can just go on home to Deborah and your boy.”

  Bo almost never talked about his late wife, but something in his voice told Dwight that he still missed Marnie pretty badly and that Christmas was making it worse.

  “Why don’t you come have Christmas with us at Mr. Kezzie’s tomorrow?” he said as they neared Cotton Grove. “You know there’s always room for another pair of legs under his table.”

  “Aw now, I couldn’t do that,” Bo said. “Could I?”

  “Sure you can. You just have to promise not to ask what the fruitcake’s been aged in.”

  The sheriff chuckled. “Well, if you’re sure…?”

  “I’m sure. Bring along your banjo, though. With the Knotts, you have to sing for your supper.”

  When the small cavalcade of official vehicles pulled into the circular drive, Malcolm Johnson was outside on this mild winter day with a pair of branch loppers, cutting out some broken limbs from the dogwoods scattered across the front. Twigs and branches were piled in his garden cart. The middle garage door was up and they could see a white late-model Toyota inside.

  “What’s happening, Dwight?” he called when his old teammate stepped down from his truck and Denning moved toward the garage with his video camera. Upon seeing the smaller man who emerged from the other side of the truck, he frowned. “Sheriff Poole?”

  Although he and Dwight were the same age, Johnson’s hair had a little more gray and his Carolina sweatshirt and black chinos hung loosely on his tall frame as if he had recently lost weight.

  “Sorry to do this, Malcolm,” Dwight said, “but we have a warrant to search your premises for a handgun. Also to impound your car if it has a dent on the left rear fender.”

  “My gun?”

  “The thirty-two you bought eight years ago.”

  “Malcolm?” Sarah Johnson had appeared in the front doorway and looked out at them with troubled eyes.

  “It’s okay, honey. Stay there.”

  But she stepped out onto the porch. “Dwight? What’s going on?”

  “Sarah, please,” Malcolm said, his voice anguished.

  “Is it about Mallory? Did you find out who spiked her Coke?”

  “I’m sorry,” Dwight said again. “We’re not here about that, Sarah. We’re here to get Malcolm’s gun.”

  “His gun? But why?” She turned to her husband. “Malcolm, why do they want your gun?”

  He held out his arm to her, but when she kept her distance, he dropped it as if in surrender.

  “They think I shot the guys that killed Mallory. That is why y’all’re here, right, Dwight? You want to see if the bullets you found in those bastards came from my gun? Well, so what? They got what they deserved and—”

  “Now hold on here a minute,” said the sheriff, stepping forward and waving his hand to silence Malcolm Johnson. “We’ve not asked you any questions and you might want to stop right there, son, and think if you want your lawyer here before you say anything else.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, Sheriff. Sarah, honey, go call Pete Taylor and tell him—” He glanced at Dwight and Bo. “I guess I ought to tell him to meet us at the jail?”

  Bo nodded.

  “Better call my dad, too.”

  “For God’s sake, Malcolm! What have you done?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Sarah. Everything’s going to be all right. Just go call Pete and Dad, okay?”

  Pale-faced, she went inside to do as he’d asked.

  When she was gone, Johnson turned to them with urgency. “Please. This is going to be rough on her, coming on top of Mallory and all this mess with Charlie. Try not to upset her any more than you have to, okay? There’s no need to tear our house apart. The gun’s upstairs in our bedroom, in the nightstand on the left side of the bed.”

  Dwight nodded to Richards, and as she entered the house, Denning walked up the drive from the garage. “There’s a scrape mark in the right place, Major, and it looks like the Higgins car left a little silver paint on that fender.”

  Malcolm Johnson heard those words as if it were nothing to do with him. Well, the man did sell insurance, thought Dwight. He must have calculated the odds already. A father temporarily deranged by grief? Who guns down the men who probably were responsible for his daughter’s death? With all the evidence they had—and they would no doubt find more before it came to trial—a jury would have to find him guilty, but his attorney would have argued their incompetent DA down to the lowest possible charges. Malcolm might get a little prison time, but by the time his case wound through the courts, he stood a good chance of winding up on probation with a suspended sentence. And few people in his circle would shun him for his act or think less of him.

  On the other hand, if he’d murdered for another man’s wife as Deborah and Isabel and Charlie Barefoot thought? The Barefoots might be blue-collar, but they were as well respected in Cotton Grove as Shelton Johnson and his two sons. Probably better liked, too. To learn that Malcolm had killed Jeff to get Sarah? No, that was not something people would easily overlook. Nor Sarah either, he suspected.

  “We know about your friend Gallie,” he told Malcolm. “Or should I say Gallagher?”

  It was a direct hit. The blood drained from Malcolm’s face. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You don’t remember the guy who hitched a ride home with you the Christmas that Jeff died?”

  Malcolm’s eyes darted toward the front door. “You’re not going to say anything like that to her, are you?”

  “Why not?” said Bo, stepping in to get a closer look at the fear on Malcolm’s face. “If she’s involved, she’s gonna need a lawyer, too, won’t she?”

  “Involved? You think Sarah—? For the love of God, Dwight! You used to be my friend. We trusted each other out there on the court. Please, man, don’t say anything to her about Gallie. I couldn’t bear it if she—Listen, I’ll confess to the shooting. I’ll make a statement right now. Is it a deal?”

  “No deals,” Dwight said. “But we don’t have to say anything about that other matter now.”

  Malcolm let out the breath he’d been holding. “Thank you.”

  Richards came down the front steps with the handgun inside a plastic bag. “Smells like it was recently fired, Major.”

  She was followed by Sarah Johnson, whose dark eyes seemed to have sunk even deeper into her skull. “Your dad’s on his way over. Pete said he’d meet you in Dobbs.”

  “Thanks, darling. Everything’s going to be all right. I promise you. I’ll be home as soon as Pete can sort this out.” He gave a rueful laugh and looked at Bo. “Am I under arrest yet, Sheriff? Or can I change clothes and wash up?”

  “No need to change,” Bo said mildly.

  “I’m coming with you,” said Sarah.

  He smiled down at her and drew her thin body close to his. “Thanks, honey. Just let me wash up and get my wallet, Sheriff.”

  Dwight glanced at Bo, who shrugged. While it was most unlikely that Malcolm Johnson would try to run, the house did back up on thick woods and probably had several rear exits. Better to forestall that possibility than risk having to stage a manhunt, thought Dwight, and he signaled for McLamb to follow their suspect into the house.

  Bo patted his chief deputy on the shoulder and shook his head in wonderment at Mayleen Richards, who was standing there, too. “Well, Dwight, I said I wanted the Wentworth killi
ngs wrapped up by Christmas and damned if you didn’t do it. Sure didn’t expect it to come out like this, though.”

  “Me either, Bo.”

  “You got any hard evidence in that other matter?”

  “Nope. And after all this time, I doubt there is any. His mother’s dead and Shelton Johnson’s sure as hell not gonna remember anything about a dinner party that would cast suspicion on his son. We can question this Gallagher man, see just how much he actually did tell Charlie. As for Charlie, it’ll depend on which he wants more: revenge for his real father’s death or to spare his mother any more hurt.”

  “Don’t forget his password,” Mayleen Richards said.

  Bo Poole looked puzzled. “His password?”

  “For his phone,” she told him. “Avenger.”

  Bo gave a sour laugh, then rocked back on his heels. “Mayleen and me, we can take it from here, Dwight. You might as well go on home and enjoy your Christmas.”

  “You sure?”

  “You know good as me that this is just the opening round. Shelton Johnson will post his boy’s bond and he’ll be back home before dark.”

  “You’ve got my cell number if anything comes up,” Dwight said, then, wishing them all a merry Christmas, he got in his truck and headed for the farm. Not even four o’clock yet, and because he would be practically passing it on his way through town, he swung by the Wentworth house.

  As he reached the door, Mrs. Wentworth opened it and was even more startled than he to see someone standing there.

  “Major Bryant!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t hear the bell.”

  He smiled and shook his head. “Sorry. I didn’t get a chance to ring it yet.”

  “I was just coming out to turn on my lights,” she said and reached down to plug a tangle of cords into the multi-outlet socket beside the door. Immediately the near bushes twinkled with colorful lights. “Was there something I can do for you?”

  “No, ma’am. I just stopped by to say that we’ve arrested the man who shot your stepsons. I can’t give you any names or details yet, but I thought you’d like to know that.”

  “Did he say why he did it?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. It’ll come out, but I can’t talk about it right now.”

  “Well, I guess that’s something anyhow. Thank you, Major.”

  Dwight had started to turn away when she said, “Did you see it?”

  “See what, ma’am?”

  “I went ahead and opened the present Matt put under the tree for me. But it wasn’t just from him. Jason signed the card, too.”

  She pointed to a small grotto she had constructed between two of the foundation bushes. The grotto was framed with several strands of clear lights and there in the center stood the small concrete Jesus that had been stolen from the Welcome Home store, his hand raised in blessing.

  Mrs. Wentworth looked at him with a sad smile. “I guess Jason finally realized that I loved him, too.”

  Although the Johnson house and grounds looked imposing from outside, inside the house felt like a real home, spacious and soundly constructed. No expenses spared, thought Raeford McLamb as he trailed the couple upstairs, keeping a discreet distance. No hollow-core doors here. They were thick solid wood, the ceilings were at least nine feet high with crown molding, and he detected not the slightest wobble in the curved banister.

  When they reached the master bedroom, which was carpeted in a thick moss green that echoed the custom-made quilted spread on the king-size bed, he hung back in the doorway to give husband and wife a semblance of privacy. French doors opened onto a wide balcony with wrought iron railings that mimicked vines and leaves. Tall oaks and maples would shade the balcony in summer, but winter’s late afternoon sunlight filtered through their leafless branches now.

  At the near end of the large room sat an overstuffed couch and a comfortable-looking lounge chair. Low bookcases held framed family photographs and McLamb immediately spotted a picture of Mallory in her homecoming queen gown and tiara. In another, she and her mother sat on a white wicker loveseat while her father and brother stood behind.

  Despite the sheriff’s telling him he needn’t change, Malcolm Johnson took off his Carolina sweatshirt and pulled a dark blue crewneck sweater over his head.

  “You married, Deputy?” he asked, as his head emerged from the sweater.

  “Yessir.”

  “Children?”

  “Two. A boy and a girl.”

  “They all excited about Santa Claus?”

  McLamb nodded. “We don’t have a fireplace and they keep trying to figure out where’s the best place to hang their stockings. I think they’re gonna make me put up hooks beside the tree.”

  Johnson paused in the doorway of the bathroom. “How long you been married?”

  “Eight years now.”

  The older man glanced at his wife, who was folding up the discarded blue sweatshirt. “Going on twenty for us.” He caught her hand. “And except for this week, it hasn’t been a bad twenty, has it, honey?”

  She smiled and he squeezed her shoulder, then walked into the bathroom.

  “Leave the door open,” said McLamb and moved over to the doorway, where he could keep the man in full view.

  The bathroom was as lavish as everything else he had seen in this house: marble slabs on the floor and counter, a large walk-in shower with the toilet hidden in an alcove at the rear. A frosted glass window probably opened onto the balcony, but there did not seem to be any other exits. Nevertheless, he watched as Johnson squirted toothpaste on the brush and turned on the water.

  The years of being a gracious hostess seemed to kick in as Sarah Johnson smoothed the wrinkles from the quilted spread. “How old are your children? Do you have pictures?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and with one eye on Johnson’s back, he pulled out his wallet to show her the photo taken last week of both his children seated on Santa’s broad lap. “This one’s Rosy and that little guy is Jordo.”

  “Such a sweet age,” she said. “I hope you’re enjoying them.”

  He put his wallet back in his pocket. “We do, ma’am.”

  “They grow up so fast. They’ll be gone in a blink of the eye.”

  At that her own eyes filled and McLamb glanced to the bathroom. Johnson had filled the basin with water and was bending over to wash his face when suddenly the sink and counter and tiled floor was splashed with red and Johnson slumped to the floor, a razor blade in his hand. Blood pumped from a deep gash on the side of his neck.

  “Oh, shit!” McLamb cried and darted into the bathroom, grabbed a towel, and tried to apply pressure to the base of Johnson’s neck.

  Sarah Johnson was screaming and she crouched beside her husband as his blood soaked her hands and shirt.

  With eyes wide open, he tried to reach for her. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I loved you so much… so…”

  The blood stopped spurting and a moment later he was gone.

  CHAPTER 32

  The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

  —“A Visit from St. Nicholas,” Clement Clarke Moore

  To my complete and utter surprise, Dwight drove into the yard around four-thirty as Cal, Bandit, and I were coming back from the woods with a basket of holly, cedar, and pine so that I could make a fresh centerpiece for the dining table.

  Cal gave his dad a wave and went on into the house to take a shower.

  Instead of getting out of the truck immediately, Dwight gave me a wait-a-minute gesture and opened the door, with the phone still to his ear. When he finally did emerge, his face was grim.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “That was Bo. Malcolm Johnson’s killed himself.”

  “Oh, Dwight.” Even though I was sure he had killed at least three young men, the news was still shocking. “How? Why?”

  “We went out to arrest him just now. When I left, he was on his way in to wash up and get his wallet. Bo thinks he palmed a r
azor blade when he opened the bathroom cabinet to get his toothpaste, and even though McLamb and Sarah were standing right there by the open door, he cut his jugular before they realized what he was doing. He practically begged us not to mention Gallagher in front of Sarah. I guess he couldn’t stand to see her learn that he’d killed Jeff.”

  “Poor Sarah.” I sighed. “Do you have to go back?”

  “No, Bo says he’ll take care of it.”

  “You want me to call Kate and say we can’t come?”

  “No.” He took a deep breath as if to shake it off and reached for my hand. “Let’s walk down to the pond and take another look at that damn fountain.”

  We walked and talked for a good forty minutes, and yes, that silly fountain finally did make us smile again when we turned it on.

  We agreed that we wouldn’t mention the murders or Malcolm’s death at the party tonight. No need to cast a pall for the others. And once we had loaded our presents for Dwight’s family in the trunk of the car and headed out into the cool evening, Cal’s excitement and high good spirits kept us from dwelling on it.

  Kate’s first husband, Jake Honeycutt, had inherited a house that had been in his family for well over a hundred years. Initially built as a four-over-four wooden farmhouse, the passage of time and the family’s increasing prosperity had brought extensive remodels and renovations that added porches and ells and a long single-floor addition on the back until it was difficult to see the original lines of the house.

  Inside, all was warmth, red velvet ribbons, glowing candles, and traditional decorations that would have made Scrooge’s nephew feel right at home. A wide central hall ran the length of the original house and the staircase that curved up to the second-floor landing had a thick evergreen garland twined in and out of the railings. (“Fake cedar,” Dwight murmured in my ear, although it looked so real, he had to touch it to be certain. “Don’t be a snob,” I murmured back.)

  Both the front and back parlors had pocket doors that could be opened to form a large space. The front parlor was the living room with two large couches and several lounge chairs. After Jake’s death, Kate had turned the back parlor into a formal dining room.