Uncivil Seasons (45 page)

“Um hum….” I looked from her to him. “Well, there’s mercy, and then there’s justice.”

“True.” There was nothing in his eyes but earnestness.

“Hall’s supporters wanted not just clemency, but a pardon. At this point, they’re just trying to get the stay of execution. And if you’re planning on making any statement about ‘mercy’ of a little more of a public nature, seems like waiting much longer might make it pretty moot.”

He gave me a stare. “I know.”

Mr. and Mrs. Dyer Fanshaw shuffled in a bored fox-trot near us. Mrs. Fanshaw smiled brilliantly at Lee, then patted the clumps of diamonds strung on her own neck. Every city employee in Hillston (including teachers, including tax clerks and garbage collectors, including me) who filled out a form or washed his hands or signed a check, did it on Fanshaw Paper. It adds up to diamonds fast. She cooed as they swerved close, “That is just a beautiful, beautiful dress, Lee.”

Lee smiled brilliantly back. “Oh thank you, Betty. Yours too. Merry Christmas.”

I excused myself again to go telephone, but Lee touched my arm. “Cuddy, before you go? Is it true there’ve been threats against the group George Hall’s brother organized? Jack Molina, on Andy’s staff, says so. He’s been working with—is it ‘Cooper’ Hall?”

I nodded. “There’re threats against just about anybody who steps in front of the public and moves enough to catch their eye.”

She stared at her husband. “But you’re protecting them?”

“Coop Hall? I can’t. Not unless I locked him up, and maybe not then. Oh, I could catch whoever did it, but if they don’t mind going to the trouble, and they don’t care about getting caught, anybody in this country can kill anybody they want to.”

“Lee?” Brookside reached for her arm again.

I backed away. “Thanks for the dance, Mrs. Brookside.” She offered her hand again, so I took it. Her fingers were cold, colder than they’d been when I’d held them before.

Out in the lobby, I saw Father Paul Madison, small and eager, selling Mrs. Sunderland’s grandnephew a chance to own a Porsche. I waved good-bye, but he held up a palm to stop me, so I waited.

“Cuddy,” he said, brushing blond hair out of his eyes, “don’t take this wrong, please, but would you know anybody I could lean on to make a contribution to the George Hall Fund? We’re seven thousand in the hole.”

“You mean, like me? And why should I take it wrong?”

He blushed. “Well, you’re the one who arrested George in the first place, but then I know you’re a friend of Isaac Rosethorn’s.”

“Isaac’s charging you guys seven thousand to represent Hall?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that much. It’s the paperwork, and phone calls, and now we need to hire an investigator to go back over—”

My back was still tightened with memories of Lee. Paul stopped in midsentence, peered at my face, then he lowered his head. “You don’t think we’ll get the stay?”

I said, “No. Do you?”

“I’m praying we will.”

“You are? Looks to me like you’re selling Porsches.”

His blush spread over his ears and neck. “Cuddy, I’m sorry I upset you,” he said. When I didn’t answer, he gave my arm a rub. “You still mad about what happened at Trinity?”

I said, “Only when I think about it.” He was referring to a protest rally that the Save George Hall Committee had staged in October on the steps of his church, Trinity Episcopal, to which they’d invited a very left-wing movie star who happened to be on location in North Carolina; they’d sent a lot of news people advance word, but neglected to do the same for the police—meaning me. I also suspected they’d taunted the Klan into coming; at any rate, ten showed up in robes, with a few Aryans in combat fatigues, plus a hundred hoods with nothing else to do. I didn’t have enough men there to handle it. Mud clots got thrown; we made four arrests, and the evening news shot a lot of footage. I was so angry at Paul and Cooper Hall, I came close to arresting them too. It was right after that that Isaac Rosethorn offered to take on the Hall case. It was also right after that that
Newsweek
called me up.

Paul was saying, “And look, drop by the soup kitchen someday. We’ve got a new stove. Eight burners and a built-in grill. Mr. Carippini bought a range for his restaurant, so he gave us his old one.”

“Isn’t he Catholic?”

“Sure. Listen, this stove’s been blessed by a bishop.”

“Father Madison,” I grinned back at him, “please don’t turn to crime; you’d run me ragged. About your Hall Fund, why don’t you ask Mrs. Andrew Brookside?”

“You think?”

“I think she’s sympathetic. But you may have to say you won’t use her name.”

Madison looked puzzled, then nodded. “Oh, right, Andy Brookside. Politics.” He acknowledged that little world with upraised palms, then with a soft whistle blew it away.

As I waited for the cloakroom attendant—an old black man with a completely specious grin, and “Hillston Club” embroidered on his jacket—I glanced at the couch by the tree, but the girl in red satin was gone. Inside the ballroom, Justin and Alice were talking to Mayor and Mrs. Yarborough. They all turned when the Jimmy Douglas Orchestra struck up “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” while behind them brass-buttoned waiters trooped out of an open door carrying gleaming platters of shiny roasted turkeys with red ribbons on their legs and circled by white candles burning in bright little apples. Everybody clapped.

Michael Malone is the author of nine novels and two works of nonfiction. Educated at Carolina and at Harvard, he has taught at Yale, at the University of Pennsylvania, and at Swarthmore. Among his prizes are the Edgar, the O.Henry, the Writers Guild Award, and the Emmy. He lives in Hillsborough, North Carolina, with his wife, Maureen Quilligan, chair of the English department at Duke University.