“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
“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.
