“The party. Yes. Kevin’s parents had gone over to Greensboro for the night to attend a Christmas concert. His sister’s in the college chorus and she had a solo part. His mother had knee surgery back in the summer and Vicodin was what they gave her for pain. She had pretty much quit taking it, but the drive up and back bothered her knee, and when she got home Wednesday afternoon and went looking for the prescription bottle in her medicine cabinet, it was gone. It had been there Tuesday morning, because she almost took it with her and then decided that Tylenol would probably be all that she’d need. So she asked Kevin and he had to confess to the party. When they heard about Mallory, they were afraid that she might have been drinking there and that they would be liable, but he swore she hadn’t and all the children I’ve talked to say the same. Mallory didn’t drink, but if someone spiked her drink, then that same someone could have slipped her a Vicodin. They were all over the house, so any of them could have taken the pills. Kevin immediately texted everybody there and let them know what he thought of someone who would steal his mother’s pills. You warm enough now, Deborah?”
I said I was and she switched off the heater fan and lowered the thermostat. “Remember, Mallory was still in a coma on Wednesday. Nobody had any idea that she’d taken anything except one of those over-the-counter cold medicines.”
“Benadryl,” Dwight said. “And alcohol would have enhanced its effects.”
“The thing is, son, that no one’s admitted spiking her Coke while she was still alive. Now that they know it might have slowed her reflexes and helped cause her to wreck the car, they certainly aren’t going to come forward and confess about any pills.”
She leaned her head back against the seat. “The funeral’s tomorrow at three. Y’all going?”
“I probably will,” I said. “You want to ride with me?”
“That would be nice. What about you, Dwight?”
He shook his head. “Sorry. I promised Cal we’d take my .22 over to the woods back of Seth’s house and see if we could shoot us down some mistletoe. If we have any luck, you want some?”
“Only if you haven’t shot all the berries off.” There was almost a hint of her old humor in her voice.
“I’ll send Cal up the tree myself if you promise to tell me whatever else you pick up from the hive mind, okay?”
“Deal,” she said.
CHAPTER 11
—
Most Sundays, if we get moving early enough to go to church, it’s to nearby Sweetwater Missionary Baptist, the church I grew up in. The minister is earnest and not too hard-shelled, and the choir does the best it can with the talent available.
When I lived with Aunt Zell and Uncle Ash and was still in private practice, though, I moved my membership to the First Baptist Church of Dobbs for purely pragmatic reasons. Not only was it easier to get to on Sunday mornings after a late Saturday night, but this was also where many of Colleton County’s movers and shakers went, and one never knew when sharing a hymnal to sing “Bringing in the Sheaves” might lead to bringing in a new client.
(What? I’m the only one who ever chose a church for other than purely religious reasons?)
The minister, Dr. Carlyle Yelvington, is a progressive liberal whose sermons don’t insult one’s intellect and who exhorts us to live the words, not just mouth them. But he’s not the only reason I rousted Dwight out of bed to go fetch Cal early enough that both could put on white shirts and ties in time to make the eleven o’clock service. I wanted some Christmas spirit, and the late-nineteenth-century stateliness of First Baptist was my provider of choice with its carved oak pews, its stained glass windows, the ribbed vaulting overhead, the richly embroidered altar cloths and choir robes, the massed greenery around the pulpit, the tall white candles, the polished brass crosses. Add in an organist and a choir who are all trained musicians, and by the time the final amen is sung I’m ready to hang up a stocking or stuff a goose.
Cal was still hopped up about the festival of bright lights he and his cousins had seen last night, especially the animated displays, and as we were getting into the car, he turned and gave the house a long consideration. “We ought to put up some more lights, Dad. Wouldn’t it be really cool to have some of those tube strips like at the RBC Center, only in red and green? Or how ’bout we get one of those reindeer that the legs flash on and off like it’s prancing on the roof?”
“Nothing on the roof,” I said. “I don’t want y’all falling off.”
Cal laughed and settled into the backseat with his Game Boy and iPod, but my offhand remark must have triggered something because Dwight said, “Last night was the first time I ever saw Charlie Johnson to know who I was looking at. He really favors Jeff, doesn’t he?”
“I really don’t remember Jeff very well,” I said, fastening my seat belt. “Anyhow, it’s not Charlie Johnson anymore. He changed his name back to Barefoot.”
“Yeah? When?”
“Last spring, I think. Portland handled the paperwork for him.”
“She say why?”
I shrugged. “All the usual, I gather, plus he thought Malcolm made it clear which was his true child. Mallory tried to talk him out of it, so I don’t think the resentment went both ways.”
“All the same, maybe I’ll have a talk with Charlie,” Dwight said. “See if he was one of the older kids at that party.”
Congregants were streaming into the church when we arrived, and Portland, Avery, and Carolyn were among them. The baby wore the lace-trimmed red plaid dress I’d given her and looked as adorable as I’d expected.
“I’ll probably have to take her out before the first prayer,” Portland said, “but it wouldn’t be Christmas without this, would it?”
We followed them into a pew and Carolyn immediately put out her arms to me. I was flattered until I realized that she was doing it to get nearer to Cal, who was sitting on my other side between Dwight and me. Babies always home in on the children and she was no exception.
