I awoke to sunshine Wednesday morning and with the same sort of happy anticipation I used to get as a child on the day before my birthday, when I knew that there would soon be presents to unwrap.
The idea made me smile and I wondered if Dwight would mind being compared to a birthday present.
“
“
“Yikes!” I said and jumped out of bed.
Fortunately I’d showered last night, so I had time to snag a peach Danish and a cup of coffee before sliding into a seat between Shelly Holt and Becky Blackmore about half a minute before Beth Keever began her presentation on “Child Support: Deviation Review and Enforcement.”
Four concurrent sessions ran from 8:30 to ten, then repeated from 10:30 to noon, with the afternoon free. We were supposed to attend two of the eight sessions.
At the ten o’clock break, the lobby buzzed with news that Jeffreys’s killer had died in a car crash.
“Poetic justice that he tried to kill Fitz with his car and wound up killing himself with it,” said some.
“Remember when Jeffreys said his opponent was gay?” Chuck Teach said. “I’m starting to wonder if guys who make a big deal out of that aren’t launching a preemptive strike.”
“The best defense is usually an offense,” one of his listeners agreed.
Another nodded. “Like my mama always said: you point your finger at somebody, you got three fingers pointing back at
Unspoken was the relief that the killer had been someone else. Not one of us.
At 10:30, as I started into the room for “Criminal Sentencing Resources,” I saw Will Blackstone and his bruised face headed that way, too. As soon as our eyes met, he abruptly changed course and detoured into the session on gangs and gang crimes.
I decided not to take it personally.
Upon adjournment, I immediately drove over to the hospital. I had told Martha that I would be by to take her to lunch and when I arrived she was positively radiant.
“Come see Fitz!” she said and practically dragged me into the unit.
He was awake and he smiled when he saw me. “Hey, Deborah.”
His voice was weak and he was still groggy from so many drugs, but it was definitely Fitz. When I leaned over to kiss him, he said, “Martha says y’all’re going out to lunch?”
I nodded.
“Watch out for cars,” he said drily.
If he hadn’t been so encumbered with tubes and wires, I would have hugged him. “Want us to bring you a nice crisp softie?” I teased.
“I’d better take a rain check.” His eyelids drooped. “Sorry. I can’t seem to keep awake.”
“You rest, sweetheart,” Martha said, patting the hand that didn’t have an IV attached to it. “Chad’s right outside and we’ll be back in an hour.”
“Take your time,” he murmured as his eyes closed again.
“They’re going to move him into a room this afternoon,” Martha said. “And if he continues to improve, we can transfer him to a hospital nearer home in a few days.”
She told me that Gary Edwards had been by that morning to bring them up to date on Kyle Armstrong’s death and his probable motive for killing Judge Jeffreys.
“All because the judge made a pass at him? I should think he would have been flattered. As I recall, Pete Jeffreys was rather handsome and Kyle was decidedly
Unfortunately, Fitz had no real memory of going to the restroom or of seeing Jeffreys or the waiter. He rather thought that he had, but he couldn’t be certain and Martha quit pushing him.
“What difference does it make now?” she asked.
* * *
After last night’s fried food, we were both in the mood for a fresh green salad and some crusty bread. Martha knew of just the place over on Oleander Drive.
“Best of all, it’s near a good used-book store,” she said. “I want something to read besides last year’s
The restaurant was in a small shopping center and had a salad bar to die for. We piled on locally grown baby spinach, arugula, oak leaf lettuce, and mustard greens, topped them with cherry tomatoes that actually tasted vine-ripened, then took our plates out to a wisteria-shaded patio. It was a typical June day, warm but not too muggy. Yesterday’s rain had washed the air so clean that it almost squeaked.
“I hope you appreciate how upscale North Carolina’s getting to be,” I said. “Did you notice that there wasn’t a single shred of iceberg lettuce on that counter?”
“Fine with me,” said Martha, who looked more rested today. “I ate enough for the whole South when I was growing up. So how’s the conference going? Am I missing any good gossip?”
“Doesn’t seem to be much,” I told her.
“Really?” She looked at me skeptically over her sunglasses. “Joy Hamilton told me that one of the judges was
