Sand Sharks (12 page)

Most attorneys, as a matter of pragmatism, will contribute a token amount to a sitting judge’s campaign, but to to be bullied
into naming a dollar amount in open court? As if it’s going to be a quid pro quo for whether that judge will listen to your
argument with an open mind? That’s like watching acid eat away at the whole concept of judicial fairness that this country
was founded on.

“Why wasn’t he reported to the ethics committee or to Justice Parker?” I asked.

Cynthia shrugged. “Maybe he was, but I haven’t heard anything about it. You?”

I hadn’t.

“If Peter Jeffreys was such bad news, though…”

“Why was I letting him lead me around?” The frown lines between her eyes deepened. “I’m the new kid on the block, remember?
This is my first conference. For all I knew, important people were winking at his conduct. He came on strong. Said all the
right things. I only realized yesterday that he wasn’t as smart as he thought he was.”

“How was that?”

“He thought I was a Blankenthorpe heiress.”

“You’re not?”

She shook her head. “My dad’s uncle is the one who started the bank. Not my grandfather. We’re from the poor side of the family,
relatively speaking.”

I smiled at the pun.

“I guess that’s why it ticked me off that he stuck me for his dinner. We stopped at an ATM on the way over so he had at least
three hundred in his wallet, but then he went to the restroom and never came back.”

“What time was that?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Around nine-thirty or a quarter to ten.”

That fit with what Fitz had said.

“So how come you didn’t tell the police about Allen Stancil?” I asked.

“Because I’m too damn literal-minded.” She set her drink cup down on the tiny metal table so hard that the ice rattled and
the table almost tipped over. “He said to write down all the judges that Pete had talked to and where they were sitting and
that’s what I did. The
judges
. Allen Stancil isn’t a judge. So is he clean or isn’t he?”

“He’s been known to cut a corner or two,” I said, “but unless he wants a government contract to put gutters on courthouses,
you’d probably be safe taking a contribution from him. He may ask for favors down the line, but you can always say no.”

“Good.” She finished her drink and reached for her tote bag. “Speaking of favors, can I ask you for one?”

“Sure.”

“Could you take this bag back to the hotel for me? I can sling it across my handlebars, but it’ll be easier if I don’t have
to mess with it.”

“No problem,” I said.

We walked out to the parking lot together and I put her bag in the trunk of my car while she unlocked her bike chain and put
on her helmet. The late afternoon heat was oppressive. Not even the hint of a breeze.

“Sure you don’t want a lift back?” I said.

“Heavens, no!” she exclaimed. “Everything’s so flat, I probably won’t even break a sweat.”

With that, she wheeled out of the lot and pedaled down Water Street.

I closed the trunk and broke a sweat just walking fifty feet to a nearby shop called Blowing in the Wind, where I bought kites
for Cal and his cousins. Back in March we had spent a Saturday morning making paper kites from directions I found on the Internet,
but they crashed and ripped in the spring winds. Cal’s had flown the longest and he was just getting the hang of how to maneuver
the string when it did a suicide dive into a maple tree.

These were made of sturdy nylon and should last longer. I even bought an extra one for Dwight and me.

Still in a shopping mode, I went on down to Two Sisters Bookery. In addition to books and book-related tchotchkes, they have
the best assortment of funny, funky cards around and I always stock up when I’m in Wilmington.

I was smiling at one of them when someone bumped into me. I turned and there was a man of late middle age, about my height,
wearing black jeans and black T-shirt, his graying hair tied back in a ponytail.

I recognized the director I’d threatened with an orange jumpsuit and braced myself for snarls.

Instead, he started to apologize, did a double take, and said, “I’ll be damned! It’s the ballsy judge. Hey, Jilly! C’mere.
It’s that judge I was telling you about.”

A slender woman in wrinkled white clam diggers, a faded blue T-shirt, and a soiled white canvas hat strolled down from the
front of the store. No makeup, no jewelry, not even a ring or watch. No sunglasses either, yet my eyes had passed right over
her when I came in.

She wasn’t exactly homely, but without eye makeup, her fair brows and lashes were almost invisible from five feet out; and
with her signature long auburn hair bundled into the crown of that canvas hat and a nearly flat chest, she really did fade
into the woodwork.

Then she flashed that thousand-watt smile, and there was no doubt that this was indeed the actress who had captivated Dwight
and enough other men to lift her out of featured roles in crash-and-burn videos and into a starring role on a prime-time network
show.

“Jill Mercer,” she said, sticking out her hand for a no-nonsense shake.

“Deborah Knott,” I told her.

“Oh, God,” the man groaned. “Judge not? Lest ye be judged?”

“I do get a lot of that,” I admitted.

“I still get the mercenary/mercy puns,” the actress said. “And I have it in my contracts that I’ll never have to work with
any actor named Jack.”

“School?” I asked.

“Fifth grade to eighth. The very worst time.”

I nodded in sympathy. “I had to put up with the Little Debbie cupcake jokes. I still won’t let anyone shorten my name.”

As we exchanged childhood mortifications, the director stood beaming at us as if he were a father who had just arranged a
successful playdate for his daughter.

“Come have a drink with us,” he said, “and tell us all the things we get wrong in Jilly’s courtroom scenes.”

“Sorry,” I said, newly reluctant to admit that I’d never seen their show.

Before I could dredge up an excuse, he snapped his fingers and said, “Oh wait. I forgot. We have a meeting in twenty minutes.
Tell you what. Why don’t you come back tonight and watch us film a car crash?”

“Do come,” Jill Mercer said. “It’ll be fun. You’ll get to watch Stone go on his pretty little ass.”

“Don’t be catty, darling,” said the director, whose name I still didn’t know.

He told me where to be and the time and promised to buy me that drink.

“Thanks,” I said, figuring that Chelsea Ann could bring me up to speed by then.

In the case of major offenses it makes a difference whether something is committed purposely or accidentally.

—Justinian (AD 483–565)

I
got back to the SandCastle a little after four and as I stepped out of my car, Chelsea Ann and Rosemary pulled in right beside
me. I couldn’t see anything as bulky as a chest or table in back.

“No luck?” I said, taking Cynthia Blankenthorpe’s tote bag out of the trunk.

“Not for me, but Rosemary found a great patchwork quilt for Rosie’s room.”

“All hand-stitched cotton in a log cabin pattern,” Rosemary said as she came around the end of the van with a bulky package
in her arms. “In Rosie’s favorite colors.”

From the smiles on both faces, I gathered that they had patched up their differences as well. For the moment anyhow.

At the desk in the lobby, I called Cynthia’s room. No answer, so I left a message to say that her tote would be here at the
desk, then asked the desk clerk to hold it for her.

“It’s bound to be five o’clock somewhere,” said Chelsea Ann, and we strolled into the bar while Rosemary went upstairs to
stash the quilt in their room.

“She’s still sharing with you?” I was surprised. “I thought she and Dave—?”

Chelsea Ann rolled her eyes. “Rosemary thinks it’s romantic to pretend they’re still legally separated, sneaking out of bed
and up to his room in the middle of the night like she’s still in high school and I’m the guidance counselor or something.
I can’t convince her that Dave’s just playing the angles. She’s so sure that he’s finally sowed his last wild oat and that
he’s ready to keep that horse in the barn.”

“And you’re not?”

“Doesn’t matter whether I believe it or not,” she said wearily. “After that public display on the balcony this morning, she
might as well have bought an ad in
The Star-News
that she’s condoned his last affair. Just a matter of time till there’s a new one.”

We ordered drinks at the bar and carried them out to the terrace. Most of the rocking chairs were taken, so we sat down at
one of the small tables just outside the door to the bar.

Even in the shade it was still warm, but not unpleasantly so. Sounds of children splashing in the pool drifted up to us. Out
at the shoreline, eight or ten pelicans skimmed past like a string of speed skaters heading for the finish line. Further down
the beach, a cloud of gulls elbowed each other out of the way to catch the chunks of bread a woman tossed into the air. I
slipped off my sandals, took a swallow of my drink, and relaxed into the chair.

“So how was your afternoon?” Chelsea Ann asked.

“Interesting,” I said, and told her about running into Jill Mercer and the director of
Port City Blues
.

“Jerome Stackhouse?”

“Is that his name?”

She described him right down to his graying ponytail and I nodded. “That’s him.”

She laughed when I told her I needed a quick cram course on the show. “He wants me to tell him what they get wrong.”

“Like he really cares,” Chelsea Ann scoffed. “I’m sure someone’s told him that in North Carolina, the prosecution and the
defense both remain seated to question a witness, but that’s not as dramatic as having them stride around and get in a witness’s
face. Or that you don’t automatically cite the grounds for your objection. Or that wearing a robe and horn-rimmed glasses
completely keeps you from being recognized when you take your hair down, take off your robe, and turn into a hot blues singer
at an after-hours club.”

“You’re kidding, right?” I said. “A female Clark Kent/ Superman thing and the Lois Lane character—”

“That would be Stone Hamilton,” she interposed.

“—He never notices? Is this show played for real or is it a sort of
Get Smart
farce?”

“It’s a dramedy. And in all fairness, Stone Hamilton plays the club owner, Don Harper, who’s never been in Darcy Jones’s courtroom.
The episodes bounce back and forth between legal dramas and Darcy’s after-hours life. Something will happen in the club that
makes her see a court case differently. Or a court case will open her eyes to what’s happening to someone at the club. The
story lines alternate, see? One week, it’s mostly about Don and she’s just a minor character. The next week, Darcy’s the one
front and center.”

“Are they lovers?”

“On screen or in real life?”

“Whichever.”

“I think Hamilton may be involved with someone from
Dead in the Water
, another show that’s filmed here in Wilmington. I don’t know about Mercer. On
Port City Blues
, there’s enough sexual tension between Don and Darcy to keep viewers wondering will they or won’t they, but everybody knows
what happens when the guy gets the girl on these shows. Kiss of death. If they’re smart, the two characters probably won’t
hook up till the very last episode.”

While the ice melted in our glasses and the occasional judge wandered by, Chelsea Ann regaled me with incidents from the show,
its legal courtroom goofs, and gossip about Jill Mercer and Stone Hamilton.

“He’s real eye candy,” she said. “I’m going to be so disappointed if he turns out to be gay.”

“Why don’t you come along with me and check him out for yourself?” I said.

Her green eyes lit up like sparklers. “Really? It would be all right?”

“I don’t see why not. That Stackhouse guy said he wanted some feedback from a real judge. This way he’d be getting a twofer
and you can stop me from putting my foot in my mouth.”

“Like that’s possible,” she said with a laugh.

We agreed to meet in the lobby later that evening and maybe get supper somewhere on the drive over.

*   *   *

When the elevator stopped at my floor, Martha Fitzhume was waiting for the doors to open.

“Oh, good!” she said. “I was on my way up to the party suite for a drink and I hate drinking by myself.”

“Where’s Fitz?” I asked, allowing myself to be dragooned.

“Having a nap. Bless his heart, he wore himself out in the pool after lunch. His retirement’s not coming a day too soon for
either of us. He just doesn’t have the stamina he used to have, Deborah, and I want him to myself while we’re both still healthy
enough to travel and enjoy each other.”

On the sixth floor, the door to 628 was on the latch, and talk and laughter met us as we neared the suite. Martha knew everyone,
of course, and I had met most of them. The one totally unfamiliar face belonged to Tom Henshaw. A barrel-shaped man in his
late forties, he was completely bald in front and on top, but thick brown hair covered the sides and back of his head. I had
been told that he was normally a shy, quiet man, but this afternoon he was downright gregarious.

It’s not that he was celebrating the death of the man who had challenged him for his recently acquired seat on the bench,
but neither was he in mourning. He greeted me so warmly that I almost expected him to hug me and thank me for finding Pete
Jeffreys’s body, as if I’d somehow been responsible for his suddenly safe seat. I couldn’t help thinking that it was a good
thing he hadn’t been at Jonah’s last night. Otherwise, he’d be near the top of my list of suspects.

All the same, looking around the room reminded me that I didn’t actually
have
a list of suspects. Several of my colleagues had been at Jonah’s, yet I couldn’t visualize any of them as a killer. Yeah,
yeah, given the right provocation, I’m sure a lot of people could kill in the heat of the moment, with or without true intent.
Look how close I’d come to fatally stabbing Allen. A few centimeters in either direction and I could be sitting in prison
right now.