“Well, I guess that’s something anyhow. Thank you, Major.”
Dwight had started to turn away when she said, “Did you see it?”
“See what, ma’am?”
“I went ahead and opened the present Matt put under the tree for me. But it wasn’t just from him. Jason signed the card, too.”
She pointed to a small grotto she had constructed between two of the foundation bushes. The grotto was framed with several strands of clear lights and there in the center stood the small concrete Jesus that had been stolen from the Welcome Home store, his hand raised in blessing.
Mrs. Wentworth looked at him with a sad smile. “I guess Jason finally realized that I loved him, too.”
Although the Johnson house and grounds looked imposing from outside, inside the house felt like a real home, spacious and soundly constructed. No expenses spared, thought Raeford McLamb as he trailed the couple upstairs, keeping a discreet distance. No hollow-core doors here. They were thick solid wood, the ceilings were at least nine feet high with crown molding, and he detected not the slightest wobble in the curved banister.
When they reached the master bedroom, which was carpeted in a thick moss green that echoed the custom- made quilted spread on the king-size bed, he hung back in the doorway to give husband and wife a semblance of privacy. French doors opened onto a wide balcony with wrought iron railings that mimicked vines and leaves. Tall oaks and maples would shade the balcony in summer, but winter’s late afternoon sunlight filtered through their leafless branches now.
At the near end of the large room sat an overstuffed couch and a comfortable-looking lounge chair. Low bookcases held framed family photographs and McLamb immediately spotted a picture of Mallory in her homecoming queen gown and tiara. In another, she and her mother sat on a white wicker loveseat while her father and brother stood behind.
Despite the sheriff’s telling him he needn’t change, Malcolm Johnson took off his Carolina sweatshirt and pulled a dark blue crewneck sweater over his head.
“You married, Deputy?” he asked, as his head emerged from the sweater.
“Yessir.”
“Children?”
“Two. A boy and a girl.”
“They all excited about Santa Claus?”
McLamb nodded. “We don’t have a fireplace and they keep trying to figure out where’s the best place to hang their stockings. I think they’re gonna make me put up hooks beside the tree.”
Johnson paused in the doorway of the bathroom. “How long you been married?”
“Eight years now.”
The older man glanced at his wife, who was folding up the discarded blue sweatshirt. “Going on twenty for us.” He caught her hand. “And except for this week, it hasn’t been a bad twenty, has it, honey?”
She smiled and he squeezed her shoulder, then walked into the bathroom.
“Leave the door open,” said McLamb and moved over to the doorway, where he could keep the man in full view.
The bathroom was as lavish as everything else he had seen in this house: marble slabs on the floor and counter, a large walk-in shower with the toilet hidden in an alcove at the rear. A frosted glass window probably opened onto the balcony, but there did not seem to be any other exits. Nevertheless, he watched as Johnson squirted toothpaste on the brush and turned on the water.
The years of being a gracious hostess seemed to kick in as Sarah Johnson smoothed the wrinkles from the quilted spread. “How old are your children? Do you have pictures?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and with one eye on Johnson’s back, he pulled out his wallet to show her the photo taken last week of both his children seated on Santa’s broad lap. “This one’s Rosy and that little guy is Jordo.”
“Such a sweet age,” she said. “I hope you’re enjoying them.”
He put his wallet back in his pocket. “We do, ma’am.”
“They grow up so fast. They’ll be gone in a blink of the eye.”
At that her own eyes filled and McLamb glanced to the bathroom. Johnson had filled the basin with water and was bending over to wash his face when suddenly the sink and counter and tiled floor was splashed with red and Johnson slumped to the floor, a razor blade in his hand. Blood pumped from a deep gash on the side of his neck.
“Oh, shit!” McLamb cried and darted into the bathroom, grabbed a towel, and tried to apply pressure to the base of Johnson’s neck.
Sarah Johnson was screaming and she crouched beside her husband as his blood soaked her hands and shirt.
With eyes wide open, he tried to reach for her. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I loved you so much… so…”
The blood stopped spurting and a moment later he was gone.
CHAPTER 32
—“A Visit from St. Nicholas,” Clement Clarke Moore
To my complete and utter surprise, Dwight drove into the yard around four- thirty as Cal, Bandit, and I were coming back from the woods with a basket of holly, cedar, and pine so that I could make a fresh centerpiece for the dining table.
