Sand Sharks by Margaret Maron Page B

I’m only a naive little housewife, so what could I possibly know?”
    Heavy sighs from Chelsea Ann.
    Much as I love my job when I’m wearing a black robe and have a gavel in my hand, I was in no mood to spend an afternoon arbitrating
     between two sisters who probably had issues going back to childhood—which one was more indulged by their mother or better
     loved by their father, or who got spanked for something the other one did.
    I closed the door and stepped back to speak through the window. “Sorry, guys, but I’m really not interested in looking at
     furniture. Dwight and Cal are probably going to come back from Virginia with a truckload of it, so y’all go on without me.
     I’ll just run over to Jonah’s and see if someone’s turned in my earring.”
    Both insisted that it wouldn’t be that much out of their way to swing past the restaurant, but I stood firm.
    As they drove off, I heard Rosemary say, “Anyhow, just because
your
marriage went down the tubes—” and I knew I’d made the right choice.
    Jonah’s was having its after-lunch lull. A few people lingered with coffee or drinks under umbrellas out on the porch, but
     most of the indoor tables were empty. A couple of hardy souls at the bar were getting an early start on the evening.
    Kyle-the-aspiring-actor clearly did not remember me from the night before, and he was only perfunctorily sorry to say he had
     not found an earring. “I think someone turned in a lipstick, though. You could ask Hank.”
    Hank-the-aspiring-hotel-manager was more accommodating if a little distracted. “Sorry,” he said, as he took out a small box
     from under the reception stand, “but it’s been crazy here today. The police only left a few minutes ago. A red-and-white earring?
     From last night?”
    I nodded and he paused from rummaging through a box of items that ranged from earrings (none of them red and white) to sunglasses
     (prescription and drugstore knockoffs) and cigarette lighters (smoking is still allowed outside and in the bar). In his neat
     white shirt, black slacks, and preppie haircut, he reminded me of my nephew Stevie, who just graduated from Carolina: the
     same clean-cut wholesomeness of a kid who knows what he wants to do with his life.
    “You at the university here?” I asked.
    “No. UNC–Greensboro.”
    Before I completely morphed into Martha Fitzhume and asked if he really did hope to manage a hotel someday, he said, “The
     guy who got killed? They said he was one of the judges here for dinner. You a judge, too?”
    I admitted that I was.
    “Was he a friend of yours?”
    “Not really.”
    “I must have seated him, but Kyle had that table and even he can’t remember which one he was. Not that y’all all look alike,”
     he assured me with a half smile.
    “You remember a bearded man last night with a little girl and boy?”
    “Vaguely. Why? Was that him?”
    “No, but while you were getting the children seated, he came over to speak to their father.”
    “Really?”
    As he laid out a row of five unmatched earrings on his reservation book, I could almost see him running that part of the evening
     through his memory.
    “Yeah, I do sort of remember him now. You think I ought to call those detectives and tell them?”
    “Tell them what?” asked a familiar voice behind me.
    Detective Gary Edwards.
    Hank gave him a puzzled look and I quickly realized that if Edwards had been at the hotel through lunchtime, he could not
     have been one of the detectives here this morning. I performed the introductions and added, “Hank just realized that he did
     see Judge Jeffreys last night.”
    “He came up to the table while I was getting the customer’s children seated, but I can’t say that I paid him any attention
     after that.” He turned and called to the waiter who stood staring out at the river, probably imagining himself on the prow
     of a ship while cameras rolled in for a close-up. “Hey, Kyle! Last night?”
    “Oh, God, not more