Sand Sharks (3 page)

The pragmatist, who only wanted to soak up sun, gave an impatient scowl.
“He’s a child. Dwight’s son. She comes down hard on him, who’s Dwight gonna side with?”

The preacher shrugged.
“So? Any other child—one of her nieces or nephews—and she’d either laugh it off or tell him, ‘Good try, kid, but it’s peanut
butter and apples driving up. Y’all can stop for hamburgers on the way home.’ She wouldn’t take it out on Dwight. He was right.
What’s the big deal?”

“Cal doesn’t respect her decisions.”

“He’s nine, for Pete’s sake! If she’s going to drop down to the nine-year-old level every time they butt heads, why should
he respect them? Stomping off sure doesn’t help.”

“I didn’t stomp,” I said.

“
You stomped,
” they chorused.

“
Very mature,
” the preacher sniffed.
“That only tells Cal that he won the round. Some role model you are.”

“Go to hell,” I said and blanked my ears to everything except the cry of seagulls and the rhythmic swoosh of waves breaking
on the beach.

I was almost asleep when someone lifted my hat and said, “Cynthia?”

I blinked up at a vaguely familiar face.

“Oops, sorry!” said the man. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Jeffreys?” I asked. “Peter Jeffreys?”

He nodded and gave me a closer look as I retrieved my hat and sat up cross-legged on the towel.

“Deborah Knott,” I told him. “District 11-C.”

“Well, damn!” He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I should have remembered. You taught a class for new judges over at the School
of Government last year, right?”

I nodded. “Who’s Cynthia? Your wife?”

“Oh, hell, no! We split up three years ago. Cynthia Blankenthorpe’s a new judge from out in Mecklenburg County. Got appointed
in January. This is her first conference and I promised to show her the ropes, introduce her to people.”

I’ll just bet he had, I thought, giving him a complete examination from behind the safety of my dark glasses. Pete Jeffreys
is from Greensboro, District 18. He came on during the last election, one of those princes of the bench, ambitious for higher
glory. There was already talk of his running for superior court in the next election cycle. Even on tiptoes, he wouldn’t stretch
to six feet, but he carried himself like a taller man and was easy to look at. Hazel eyes, a thick head of straight brown
hair, cleft chin, and—now that I was seeing him stripped down to swim trunks with a towel draped over one shoulder—a slender
build that was nicely muscled. Not even the slightest hint of love handles. How had I overlooked him when I was still free
and single?

“
He was married
,” my inner preacher reminded me sternly.
“And so are you now.”

“
Yeah, yeah,
” said the pragmatist, taking off his sunglasses for a better look. “
But there was something else…
”

Then Pete Jeffreys said, “Any chance you could rub some of your sunscreen on my shoulders?” and what had been a normal friendly
smile morphed into a conceited smirk.

Men who think they are irresistible have always been a big turn-off for me and smirks make me want to slap the entitlement
right off their faces.

“Sorry,” I said with my sweetest smile. “I’m afraid my bottle’s almost empty and I’ll burn if I don’t keep it on, but I’m
sure you can find some at the gift shop.”

“No problem,” he said easily. “There’s Cynthia now. She probably has enough to share. See ya ’round.”

“
Not if she sees you first,
” said the pragmatist as Pete moved on down the beach to where a woman was spreading a colorful striped beach towel.

Even from this distance, it was clear that Cynthia Blankenthorpe was at least five years older and several pounds heavier
than me. Had Pete really mistaken those muscular thighs for mine?

So
not good.

On the other hand, with that name, she was probably part of the Blankenthorpes who were connected to big-time banking in Charlotte.
If he was already building a wider network for future campaigns, maybe it was wishful thinking on his part.

I tucked my key card inside my hatband and headed for the water. The tide was low and still receding. A group of teenage boys
and girls were further out with bright green, red, and turquoise boards but the waves were way too gentle for any real surfing,
which is okay with me. I’m not a strong swimmer and big waves intimidate the hell out of me, but I do love to bobble on the
swells and paddle around in the shallows.

Which I did until I was pleasantly tired. It felt downright hedonistic to go back to my room, shower, and even lie down for
a nap that might have stretched right through the night if Chelsea Ann hadn’t called me to ask if I could bring along an extra
sweater.

“We want to eat outside, right? If the wind’s off the river, it could get a little chilly.”

I had planned to wear my white cotton sweater tonight, but I put it aside for her and opted for a red one over a red-and-white
print sundress. Dangly hoop earrings, red straw sandals, and I was ready to roll.

For all these crimes it has been decreed that capital punishment shall be meted out.

—Paulus (early AD 3rd century)

W
hen the down elevator stopped at my floor, the car was crowded. “Make room for the lady in red,” called a voice from the back.

“Thanks, Chuck,” I said as I squeezed on.

Judge Charles Teach from further up the coast is well named although he’s better looking than Edward Teach, aka Blackbeard.
Still there’s something piratical about those flashing dark eyes and the black-as-tar beard that he keeps trimmed to a neat
Vandyke instead of the greasy curls his namesake favored. Early forties and still a bachelor, his reputation as a brilliant,
hard-working jurist is tempered by his reputation as a womanizer who plays as hard as he works. And yes, there might have
been some heavy breathing on both our parts one year at fall conference, but lust turned to liking before things got out of
hand or into bed.

He usually shares a suite that automatically turns into party central. Indeed, when our elevator reached the lobby, two of
his suitemates were there to get on. Steve Shaber and Julian Cannell, colleagues from the Fort Bragg/Fayetteville area, had
commandeered a valet’s luggage cart and, judging by that large cooler and some lumpy brown paper bags, they had brought enough
supplies to stock a small saloon.

I got warm hugs from both of them and even warmer injunctions to come up to Room 628 after dinner.

A couple of judges from out near Asheville were waiting for Chuck and, as we headed for our cars, they invited me to join
them.

“Thanks, but I’m meeting Chelsea Ann Pierce and Rosemary Emerson over on the river,” I told them.

“Jonah’s? That’s where we’re going,” Chuck said. “You can ride with us.”

Fifteen minutes later we had crossed the causeway, and were soon driving down one of the port city’s main thoroughfares. That
part of Market Street nearest I-40 begins with block after block of small businesses, fast-food joints, and cheap motels,
but it winds up in the old part of town to become a beautiful divided street with stately homes on either side, historical
markers, and live oaks whose limbs drip with Spanish moss and almost touch overhead to form a dark green tunnel.

The street ends at the Cape Fear River where Chuck turned left and drove along Water Street till he reached a graveled parking
lot. This early in the evening there were still a few places left beneath the huge old mulberry trees along the riverbank,
and he wedged his car in next to a black SUV with an NCDCJ license plate that belonged to Chelsea Ann. Across the water from
us, the superstructure of the USS
North Carolina
was silhouetted against a cloudless blue sky. The body of the ship itself was nearly obscured by a thicket of trees.

Instead of walking along uneven cobblestones to the front entrance of Jonah’s, we took some nearby wooden steps up to the
Riverwalk, a wide promenade of treated lumber that stretches about a mile, connecting Chandler’s Wharf with its shops and
restaurants at the south end to the Chamber of Commerce at the north end. In contrast to the old battleship permanently moored
as a museum, a modern supertanker had just cleared the raised bridge downriver.

We watched for a minute and were moving on when, from behind us, we heard a dog’s bark, then a sharp yelp and men’s voices
hot with anger.

“He didn’t touch you!” cried a young man, who tugged on a retractable leash to restrain a lunging brown boxer. “Dammit all,
you didn’t have to kick him.”

“Just get him the hell away from me or I’ll have you arrested,” the older man snarled.

It was Pete Jeffreys. “Frickin’ dog tried to bite me,” he told us as he mounted the steps, trailed by Cynthia Blankenthorpe.

“Like hell!” shouted the dog’s owner. “You’re the one needs arresting, kicking him like that.”

Jeffreys started to turn back and answer him, but Judge Blankenthorpe caught him by the arm. “Let it go, Pete. Don’t push
it.”

Still muttering angrily, Jeffreys allowed her to lead him away. I looked back and saw the ruggedly handsome man kneel beside
his dog and run his hands over its head as if to make certain nothing was damaged. There was something about the man’s face
that made me look again although I was sure that he was no one I knew.

At the restaurant, the host who greeted us was a fresh-faced collegiate-looking kid who led us over to outdoor tables overlooking
the river where Rosemary and Chelsea Ann were at work on frozen margaritas.

“Dave not coming?” I asked Rosemary when I realized that her husband wasn’t there.

“He’s skipping summer conference this year,” Chelsea Ann said. “It’s just Thelma and Louise this time.”

“Actually, he’s here,” said Rosemary.

“What?” Chelsea Ann stared at her in open-mouthed surprise and Rosemary flushed brick-red. Both sisters had fair skin and
green eyes but Rosemary’s hair was more strawberry than golden and she reddened more easily when flustered.

“It was a last-minute change of plans,” she said.

“How last-minute?” Chelsea Ann asked tightly.

“That was who called me while we were in the Cotton Exchange. He thought we’d be eating at the hotel and he was going to surprise
us, but someone told him we were over here.”

“So he’s coming?” I asked, thinking to diffuse whatever was happening between them.

Rosemary shook her head. “He thinks he may have had one too many beers to drive, so he’s going to chill out in his Jacuzzi
and then grab a sandwich or something at the hotel bar.”

“Let’s hope that’s all he grabs,” Chelsea Ann muttered in my ear.

Huh? Although I knew Dave Emerson liked to flirt and talk trash to pretty women, I’d always assumed the marriage was basically
strong. Certainly I’d never heard Rosemary express regret for giving up her own law career to further his while staying home
to raise two high-achieving daughters. Of course, I don’t know as much about her personal life as I do her sister’s. Still…

I lifted an eyebrow at Chelsea Ann, who gave a don’t-askme-now shrug. Rosemary appeared not to have heard, so I filed it for
future reference and let it go.

We weren’t the only ones who had arrived in town early and who had decided to gather there for dinner. As often happens at
conventions and conferences, tables meant for four soon accommodated six, and other tables were pushed together until we had
taken over the whole left front corner of the open porch. Like the Emersons, some judges were there with spouses to make it
a family vacation. After table-hopping to speak to colleagues I hadn’t seen since the last conference, I came back to my original
table and took an empty chair beside white-haired Fitz Fitzhume and Martha, his tall, angular, and opinionated wife, even
though that left me with my back to the water.

A reedy young waiter with a weak chin arrived with the Fitzhumes’ drinks, took our orders, and agreed to bring me a margarita
to replace the one I’d finished at another table.

“Kyle’s trying to break into television,” said Martha, a true people person who can’t help getting the life history of almost
everyone she comes into contact with, from lawyers to janitors and certainly with the wait staff. “He got to be on-camera
for a crowd scene in
Dawson’s Creek
.”

“And when I was a little kid, I was in a courtroom scene on
Matlock
,” the waiter said. “In the row right behind Andy Griffith.”

“Then you’re from Wilmington?” I asked politely.

“Myrtle Beach actually, but my aunt lives here and she knew one of the crew members on the show, so that’s how I got on.”

I’m no judge—well, no judge of acting ability anyhow—but it seemed to me that his voice was too thin and just a little too
arch for anything except the lightest of comedies. He was poised to tell me the rest of his brushes with the spotlight until
Martha gently reminded him that his current role was waiter and that she, for one, was hungry.

“Nice kid, but too much fluff between the ears,” said Martha. “He may sleep with a director, but that’s about as far as he’s
gonna get in show business.”

“Cynic,” I said.

“Not cynical, sugar. Just realistic. Now Hank over there”—she pointed to the young man who had shown us to this part of the
porch—“he wants to go into hotel management and I’d say he has the chops for it.”

Indeed, he was in the act of seating a bearded man with two young children, a girl and a boy. He brought them crayons and
a coloring sheet and was fitting one of the chairs with a booster seat for the little boy when Pete Jeffreys approached the
table. The father half rose from his chair to shake hands and introduce his children, who shyly ducked their heads. The headwaiter
stood by discreetly until the introductions were over, then handed the man a menu and signaled for a waitress.