When the pretzel bag came around again, I snagged a couple to ease the hollow in my stomach and joined a group that included Roger Longmire and Cynthia Blankenthorpe, who had not looked particularly shocked when I described finding Jeffreys’s body.
She had changed into a pair of white duck walking shorts that emphasized her muscular thighs and calves and reminded me of Tour de France cyclists. Those could have been Lance Armstrong’s legs. If they’d been mine, I’d have tried to disguise them in a long skirt or looser pants, but she sat like a man, with her left ankle resting on her bare right knee. Her unpolished nails were cut short and there were raw-looking red scratches on her right hand. Her bangs and the ends of her shoulder-length hair looked sun-bleached, as if the rest of her light brown hair had been protected from the sun by a helmet or cap. Maybe she really was a cyclist. Face, arms, and legs were certainly well tanned. No worries about skin cancer here.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” I said.
“Did they say if it was quick?” she asked as Roger shifted over to make room for me on the couch. She had an easy air of confidence that probably came from growing up a Blankenthorpe in Mecklenburg County.
“I would imagine it was,” I said, with more assurance than I felt. “I’ve been told it only takes a few seconds for the brain to shut down.”
I tried not to think of those few seconds. It’s all relative, isn’t it? As Einstein pointed out, an hour passes in an instant when you’re sitting with a lover. When you’re sitting on a hot stove, a few seconds stretch into eternity.
“His car’s still there,” I said. “Didn’t you ride over with him?”
“I did,” she said, reaching for the bowl of cashews on the coffee table. “But when I was ready to leave, I couldn’t find him, so I hitched a ride back with the Fitzhumes.”
“What time was that?”
She shrugged. “Around ten or so. Why?”
“The police are asking who saw him last.”
“I doubt that was me.”
“Did you know him long?”
“Not really.” She took a hefty swig of whatever was in her glass. “I have to run this fall and to give him his due, he was willing to introduce me to his donors and to the other judges here.”
“Sounds like you didn’t care for him all that much,” I said.
She shrugged. “He came on a little strong. For some reason, he decided he was going to be my mentor… give me advice on how to run my campaign, show me the ropes, he said.”
The short man perched on the arm of her chair rolled his eyes and said, “Yeah, I just bet he did.”
He was built like a bowling ball—round and solid, with the same amount of hair. I felt as if I should know him, but I couldn’t put a name to his pudgy little face.
“Bernie Rawlings,” he said, intuiting my lapse. “From the mountains of Lafayette County. You covered court for my brother last fall. Almost got yourself killed, I hear.” He described the outcome of a murder investigation from my time up there in Cedar Gap. As I expected, a lack of evidence had kept one of the culprits from being charged even though everyone was pretty sure he was the killer.
As we talked, others had come and gone, mostly gone until there were only a half dozen of us left. Steve and Julian began to gather up the empty cans and bottles and to store the cheese and olives in the small fridge. It wasn’t exactly here’s-your-hat-what’s-your-hurry, but yeah, it was pushing two a.m. and well past time for respectable judges to call it a night.
I always ask for a room near the elevator, which means that I’m also near the ice machine and vending area. When I said good night to the others and exited at my floor, I heard someone filling an ice bucket. Martha Fitzhume emerged from the alcove with an ice bucket and a can of Coke and seemed surprised to see me.
“I didn’t realize we were neighbors,” I said.
Her white hair was rumpled as if she’d slept on it wrong. In lieu of pajamas, she wore gray knit pants and an oversized purple T-shirt from Fitz’s last election. A sheen of moisturizer glistened on the bony angles of her patrician face.
She was equally observant. “You look like hell, sugar. I heard about Jeffreys. You all right?”
“Just tired,” I said, key card in hand. “Couldn’t you sleep?”
“Not me, Fitz.” She shook her head ruefully. “Those damn crabs. He ate all of his and half of mine, too, and now he has indigestion. I thought maybe a Coke would settle his stomach. You reckon there was something wrong with them? I heard you got sick, too, or was that because of finding Pete Jeffreys?”
“Probably the margaritas,” I admitted.
“I suppose the police questioned you about this evening?”
I nodded.
“You didn’t find it necessary to repeat what I said about him, did you?”
“No.”
“Good. Fitz is always telling me I run my mouth too freely at times.”
“But why
“Just stuff,” she said with a vague wave of the Coke can. “You know how word goes around.”
“What stuff?” I persisted.
