Rituals of the Season

by Margaret Maron Narrated by C.J. Critt

Overview

Best-selling author Margaret Maron shows the form that has won her the Edgar and Agatha Awards, among many others, in this riveting mystery.

Judge Deborah Knott and Deputy Sheriff Dwight Bryant are due to marry in a week. But all plans are put on hold when an assistant district attorney is killed, and the clues compel Judge Knott to investigate an earlier double murder that may be connected.

Editorial Reviews

Marilyn Stasio

While Maron always makes a point of involving her in the rituals and customs of her home state, after 10 novels it's a pleasure to see this warmhearted woman finally participating in the rites of matrimony.
— The New York Times

Publishers Weekly

At the start of Maron's first-rate 11th Deborah Knott mystery (after 2004's High Country Fall), the judge and her fianc , sheriff deputy Dwight Bryant, are distracted from their impending nuptials by a fatal car crash involving assistant D.A. Tracy Johnson. When it turns out that someone shot Johnson as she was driving, Deborah and Dwight become involved in a murder investigation that will uncover a web of crime and corruption in Colleton County, N.C. Meanwhile, members of Deborah's large, extended family, among other warm Southern characters, hurry to complete the renovations on Deborah's old farmhouse and to prepare, celebrate and sometimes complicate the upcoming wedding. When two young students approach Deborah about a death-row prisoner who they think is innocent, she can't resist helping. In contrast to the image of the ideal woman described in the quotes from the Victorian etiquette book that head each chapter, the realistic, contemporary Deborah, an expert at multitasking, handles all challenges with wit, intelligence and sensitivity. Agent, Vicky Bijur. (Aug.) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.

Library Journal

Unfortunately for poor Judge Deborah Knott, her wedding day worries include murder. Multiple mystery awardwinner Maron lives in Raleigh, NC. Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews

To-do list: Find the killer, stop the execution, get married. Judge Deborah Knott (High Country Fall, 2004, etc.), who dated Mr. Wrongs for years while her daddy, 11 brothers and numerous sisters-in-law were convinced she'd never settle down, has opened her heart to Deputy Sheriff Dwight Bryant. Their big day is only a week or two off when the murder of ADA Tracy Johnson sends their plans off-kilter. Although Deborah and Dwight have a pact never to discuss cases that might come before her on the bench, Deborah can't say no to two college kids who beseech her to look into the Martha Hurst case. They believe that Hurst, due to be executed in a month for the murder of her son-in-law and ex-lover, is innocent. If DA Doug Woodall is correct in saying that his case was airtight, why was Tracy asking to see the old case files before she died? While Deborah and the college kids wrestle with long-ago witnesses, Dwight worries about the surprises in Tracy's autopsy and his suddenly missing deputy Don Whitley. There'll be another death, hints of an irregular pregnancy or two and more police corruption in Colleton County before the DA redresses a wrong, Tracy is avenged and Deborah and Dwight celebrate their nuptials. Despite the carnage, there's such bonhomie and sexual warmth that readers may well consider moving to North Carolina to be closer to the Knott family.

Product Details

BN ID:	2940169302387
Publisher:	Recorded Books, LLC
Publication date:	08/29/2008
Series:	Deborah Knott Series , #11
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

Rituals of the Season

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By Margaret Maron

WARNER BOOKS

Copyright © 2005 Margaret Maron
All right reserved.
ISBN: 0-446-61765-2

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Chapter One

Punctuality is the mark of politeness.

Florence Hartley, The Ladies' Book of Etiquette, 1873

I had adjourned court a little early that bleak December afternoon after taking care of everything I could without a prosecutor (the assistant DA had a late doctor's appointment), but I'd heard that the party outlet in Makely sold inexpensive wedding favors and, yeah, yeah, with less than two weeks till the big day, you'd think I would have already taken care of every detail worth mentioning.

Wrong.

Having avoided it for this long, I was now so hooked on this whole wedding thing that I was like a junkie who needs just one more fix. Although my sisters-in-law didn't know it, what I planned to wear was already hidden in an empty closet at Aunt Zell's house, along with my shoes, gloves, and the dark red velvet cloak that would ward off December's chilly winds going to and from the First Baptist Church over in Dobbs. (That the hooded cloak flattered the hell out of my dark blond coloring was purely incidental.) My bouquet had been ordered. The country club had been booked for a simple champagne reception, the gold band I would place on Dwight Bryant's finger had been engraved and entrusted to Portland Brewer, my matron of honor, and when I left home that morning, I wascompletely caught up on all my thank-you notes. (One good thing about a Christmas wedding is that greeting cards can do double duty.)

The only item lacking was the little bride and groom for the cake. And trust me, I do know they're tacky and not exactly cutting edge, but my bossy, opinionated family wouldn't feel it was a real wedding cake if I only had rosebuds and ribbon icing. I'd ordered a cake topper off the Internet-one in which the groom was dressed in a formal blue police uniform-but it still hadn't come. Kate Bryant, Dwight's artistic sister-in-law, had volunteered to paint the uniform brown like the one Dwight would be wearing and to change the bridal gown, too, but she was going to need a couple of days to work her magic and one of my own sisters-in-law had suggested I might could find something suitable at the Makely store.

"Sorry," said the clerk. "You should have tried us back in the spring."

"Back in the spring, I didn't know I was going to need one," I told her.

At that point, I should have walked out of the store and headed straight back to Dobbs, but I saw so many cool stocking stuffers for my numerous nieces and nephews that I completely lost track of the time. It didn't help that traffic on the interstate was so backed up by an accident or something that I got off at the next exit and had to negotiate unfamiliar back roads.

"Dammit, Deb'rah, where've you been?" growled my groom-to-be when I pulled into a slot in front of his apartment well after dark and nearly ninety minutes later than I'd promised when we talked at noon.

Dwight Bryant and I first met on the day I was born-he remembers it; I don't-but until three months ago I'd always thought of him as just another of my eleven older brothers. Surprised the hell out of me when pragmatic lust abruptly morphed into a romantic love as fiery and all-consuming as a Nora Roberts novel, especially when Dwight confessed that he'd been hiding his true feelings for me behind his honorary-brother role for years.

Doesn't stop him from still yelling at me like one of my brothers, though. Bareheaded, no jacket, he was pacing back and forth on the windswept landing in front of his second-floor apartment when I got there, and he made it down the steps before I could get my keys out of the ignition.

I tried to explain about court finishing early and how I then got sidetracked by Christmas shopping and after that, the traffic so that-

He didn't want to hear it. "And you couldn't call? Or remember to switch your phone on so I could call you?"

I admitted that I'd absentmindedly left my phone in the pocket of my robe, which was now hanging in an office at the Makely courthouse, but he caught me in his arms and held me tightly against him as if to make sure that I was whole and unharmed. For such a big guy, he can be surprisingly gentle. His hands and cheeks were like ice. Felt good, though, and my body started to throb and buzz until I realized that part of the vibration came from the cell phone hooked on his belt.

With one arm still around me, he unclipped the phone, checked to see who it was, and said, "Yeah, Faye?"

I didn't hear what the dispatcher was saying, but there was nothing ambiguous about his reply. "Tell them to disregard that BOLO. She's here now."

I couldn't believe it. He'd done a be-on-the-lookout for me?

I twisted away from his arm, grabbed the small bag of groceries from the front seat of my car, and stormed up the stairs to his apartment.

"That was totally uncalled for," I said angrily, when Dwight finally followed me inside. I had flung my coat across the back of his couch and now I was slamming cupboard doors as I pulled out pots and pans.

"I haven't accounted to anyone since I was eighteen," I told him, "and I'll be damned if I'm going to start toeing some imaginary mark now just because we're getting married."

He closed the door quietly against the chill December night and stood there white-faced, staring at me, until I finally realized that he had probably spent the past hour remembering how close I came to dying the last time I didn't answer my cell phone for five hours.

I let go of my anger and went to him.

"Hey," I said softly, standing on tiptoe to brush his lips with mine. "Nothing's going to happen to me ever again. I'm going to be here safe and sound for the rest of your life, but not if you try to keep me in bubble wrap, okay?"

"I wish to God I could," he said and kissed me with such vehemence that I knew something bad had happened.

"What is it?" I asked. "What else did Faye tell you?"

"That traffic backup you ran into on the interstate just now? It was Tracy Johnson. She smashed into an overpass."

"What? Is she okay?"

He shook his head. "Sounds like she died instantly."

I stood there with my mouth open. Brisk, efficient Tracy Johnson? The tall and slender ADA who loves high heels as much as I do and who tries to hide her beauty and brains behind the ugliest pair of horn-rim glasses in eastern North Carolina?

Impossible!

"I just saw her," I protested. "She prosecuted today's calendar."

"I'm sorry, shug," he said.

"What about Mei?" I asked. "Tracy left court early because Mei had a doctor's appointment for an ear infection."

"She was in the car, too. They're going to air-vac her to Chapel Hill, but it doesn't sound good."

Three years ago, Tracy got tired of waiting around for a man who wasn't intimidated by her height or her mind and decided to adopt from China. It had taken her two years to complete all the paperwork, and she was utterly besotted by the baby, who was just beginning to walk and talk. Portland and I and some of the women from the DA's office had given her a shower once the adoption went through.

She was a few years younger and we were never hugely close, but I did respect her. She was an excellent prosecutor, efficient, prepared, and fairer than most who just want the win, no matter what.

"Does Doug know?" I asked. Doug Woodall is our district attorney and Tracy's boss.

"Doubt it," Dwight said. "They just ID'd her and family takes precedence. Did she have any?"

"I'm not sure. I know her parents are dead, but I think she has a sister or brother over in Widdington. Or maybe it was a cousin that came to her shower when she brought Mei home from China this spring."

Tears spilled down my cheeks and my heart was sore just thinking about that poor little baby. Unwanted by her birth mother, now she'd lost the adoptive mother who adored her. What would happen to her?

Dwight's cell phone buzzed again. "Yeah, Faye?"

His face went even grimmer as he listened, then he said, "Give me the coordinates again. And call Jamison and Denning. Tell them to meet me there."

Jack Jamison's one of the new detectives he's training and Percy Denning is Colleton County's crime scene specialist.

"What now?" I asked as he holstered his gun and reached for the heavy winter jacket hanging on a peg by the door.

"The wreck wasn't an accident," he said. "The EMTs say Tracy was shot."

"Shot?" All sorts of wild possibilities tumbled through my mind. I tried to think what was in season now. "Tracy died because some dumb hunter wasn't paying attention?"

Dwight shrugged. "The ROs say it looks like a deliberate act."

ROs-responding officers.

"Why?"

"Won't know till I get there, shug." He zipped his jacket, gave me a quick kiss and was gone.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Rituals of the Season by Margaret Maron Copyright © 2005 by Margaret Maron. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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