Free Home Fires by Margaret Maron Page A

Emma’s camera-ready sheets that lay on the counter between us.
    “Naw, now, I didn’t say that.”
    Leamon slid the folder out from under my hand and looked at the mock-ups my niece had done of a simple single-fold leaflet and pasteboard bookmarks. Both had a dignified head-and-shoulders picture of me in my judge’s robes and “RE-ELECT JUDGE KNOTT” in bold block capitals. In the picture, the lacy edge of a standup white collar was meant to remind voters that I was both feminine and womanly. My shoulder-length dark blonde hair was pinned up in a modified French twist to make me look more mature and my blue eyes looked candidly into the camera. The bookmark stated my background and experience—the legal and professional bits, not the personal, thank you very much.
    Because I’m only thirty-six and haven’t sat on many boards or commissions, the leaflet encompassed lots of tasteful, if useless, white space. A short text elaborated that I’d begun my law studies at Columbia and finished at Chapel Hill and that I’d been a partner in the well-respected firm of Lee and Stephenson right here in Colleton County. It also mentioned that I was a member of First Baptist of Dobbs and that I’d been born near Cotton Grove, smack-dab in the middle of Judicial Court District 11-C.
    It did not mention a disastrous attempt at marriage, my lack of husband and 1.3 children (the county average in my socioeconomic age group), nor that my father had once run white lightning from Canada to Mexico.
    I didn’t expect anyone else to mention those last three things either, since Howard Woodlief was my only opposition this time and judgeships aren’t hotly contested before statewide television cameras. Mine was nothing like the race shaping up between Richard Petty and Elaine Marshall for Secretary of State. Even CNN was interested in that one, since she would be the first woman elected to North Carolina’s Council of State if she won, while King Richard would be its first NASCAR champion if he took the checkered flag.
    Then there was the Jesse Helms/Harvey Gantt rematch.
    With all those horses crashing through the woods, my run for reelection would be lucky to get a mention in the Dobbs
Ledger
.
    Which was why I needed bookmarks and leaflets to remind the voters I’d be on the ballot.
    Leamon’s lips moved as he read to himself the closing motto that Emma had composed: “Caring, Compassionate and Competent.”
    Emma loves alliteration.
    So do most of the voters in this district.
    “Real nice,” said Leamon. “Now was you thinking black ink on white or can we juice it up with a little color?”
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    With no time left for a sit-down lunch, I grabbed a salad and a bottle of apple juice at the sandwich shop across the street and carried them back to the courthouse, intending to eat at my desk. But when I tried to open the office door, it was locked.
    Odd. I never push the button latch when I leave because I’ve never had a key. No problem though. Luther Parker, who shares the connecting lavatory, wasn’t back yet, so I scooted across his office, through the lavatory, then stopped short as I opened the inner door.
    Cyl DeGraffenried was there, hunched in the chair before my desk.
    She whirled around to face me.
    “Sorry,” she said. “I thought you were— I needed a little privacy— I—I—”
    Her hair was disheveled and as she stood up, it was clear from her swollen eyes that she’d been crying. Indeed a last tear trickled slowly down her smooth dark cheek as she stood there staring at me helplessly. In the time that I’ve known her, I’ve never seen Cyl DeGraffenried cry or look helpless and it left me at a loss, too.
    “That’s okay.” I gestured awkwardly with my brown paper bag and started to back out. “I’ll eat at Luther’s desk. You take all the time you want.”
    I retreated to Luther’s office and a few minutes later heard water running in the lavatory sink. I was halfway