And hello, more than a tiny bit complicated. Not exactly helpful to discover that it was Mitch, not Brandon, who’d been in her heart as she lay there in that root cellar waiting to die. Des had already had her chance with Mitch and blown it. And now he’d given his own heart to someone else, according to Bella. A British dance critic- slash-bitch named Cecily. So it was too late for a do-over. Which Des accepted. Had to accept. Because it was what it was. Besides, Brandon was by her side right now being so supportive and sweet. She belonged with Brandon. And she was going to make it work with Brandon. She was determined to make it work.
“We are taking the phone off the hook when we get home,” he told her as the doctor was patching up her head wound. “You are going to sleep in tomorrow. And I am bringing you breakfast in bed.”
She smiled at him, stroking his cheek gently. “Careful, baby, I could get used to being spoiled.”
“Get used to it. Your man wants you to.”
Brandon made good on his promise, too. He let her sleep sinfully late. And he really did serve her breakfast in bed-orange juice, bacon, eggs and toast. Brandon had never been the greatest of cooks. But she forced down every greasy, lukewarm bite, yumming enthusiastically as he hovered over her, plumping her pillows. She still had herself an awful headache, as well as that persistent ringing in her ears. But she felt sinfully decadent as she lay there sipping her second cup of coffee. And was genuinely touched by the way Brandon was fussing over her. He kept the local newspapers away from her. She wasn’t ready for them. Instead, she leafed her way through the New York Times and Boston Globe, barely noticing the headlines. Nothing was taking place in the outside world that seemed to matter to her.
Until, that is, one particular item in the Globe caught her eye. And held it.
As he left for work Brandon made her promise that she’d take it easy today. Des promised him she would. She was real convincing, too.
But once he was out the door Des switched into action mode. Dialed 411 for Moodus. Had herself a good, long talk with someone who she’d been wanting to speak with for a couple of days. Then she climbed into a fresh uniform, got in her cruiser and started back to Sour Cherry Lane with her head spinning. And not because of any damned concussion.
The thunderstorms of last night had passed over. The day was clear and bright, with puffy white clouds and a cool, fresh breeze blowing off of the Sound. Des rolled down her windows and savored it, knowing there wouldn’t be many more days like this before the sweltering humidity of summer settled in.
The Procter house was a shattered, sodden wreck. There was broken glass everywhere. Virtually every pane of every window had gotten blown out in the firefight. The window frames and front door were in pieces. The weathered cedar shingles nothing more than splinters and shards.
Des rolled up to find all three generations of Beckwith women hard at work out on the front porch. Patricia, who had cared for Richard Procter a great deal. Kimberly, who had been ga-ga over him. And Jen, the born achiever, who never, ever smiled. Jen was helping her mother sweep the broken glass into a trash barrel. Patricia was taking a tape measure to the windows and jotting down her findings on a yellow legal pad.
Des got out of her Crown Vic and tipped her big hat at the regal old woman. “What do you intend to do now, ma’am?”
“Fix it up, naturally,” Patricia answered. “Then re-let it. I was assured by a highly reputable contractor this morning that it’s still structurally sound.”
“And it has one heck of a fine root cellar, I happen to know.”
Patricia paused from her measuring to cast a critical eye at Des. “You’ve been through quite an ordeal, young lady. I’m surprised to see you back at work so soon.”
“I’m fine, ma’am.”
“I’m told that Carolyn Procter has been informed of Clay Mundy’s death,” Patricia said. “Her sister, Megan, doesn’t believe in shielding loved ones from bad news. A belief that I happen to share. I’ve never abided coddling.”
“How did Carolyn take the news?”
“Like the strong, capable woman she truly is. She did not fall into hysterics or any other such nonsense, Megan said. Molly is spending the day with her at the hospital today. As soon as Carolyn’s doctors feel she’s ready, Megan intends to take them home to Maine. Permanently, it would appear.”
“I hate to admit it,” Jen said glumly. “But I’m going to miss the little squirt.”
“Then we shall go to Maine and visit her,” her grandmother responded, gazing cooly over at Kimberly. “All three of us, if that is acceptable to you.”
“Really? I mean, sure. Sounds… great.” Kimberly was visibly floored by her mother-in-law’s invitation. Clearly, this signaled a major thawing of family relations. “I got me a week of vacation time coming in July. We could drive up. It’ll be fun, won’t it, honey?”
Jen blew a loose strand of blond ponytail away from her mouth. “If you say so.”
Des stood there studying the girl, wondering if she’d ever figure out how to get her happy on. Or if her whole life would merely be filled with one grim, dogged achievement after another.
Now Amber and Keith came toodling down Sour Cherry for home in Keith’s pickup, waving as they drove past. Des excused herself and strode down the lane after them.
They’d been out grocery shopping. Big, blond Keith yanked a forty-pound bag of birdseed from the back of the truck, hoisted it over his shoulder and started around to the backyard with it. Several bags of groceries remained behind. Amber, who was looking bug cute in a cropped knit top and tight jeans, muscled two of them out of there. Des grabbed two more.
“You would not believe the commotion we set off at the market,” she chattered at Des as they made their way inside through the front door. “Absolutely everyone wanted to know everything about last night. They kept asking us a million questions. It’s like we turned into overnight celebrities just because we to live across the lane. Can you believe it?”
“I can, actually. In fact, I had something I wanted to ask you myself.”
They put their bags down on the kitchen table. It was an old-fashioned farmhouse kitchen, sunny, cheerful and spotless.
“Sure thing,” Amber said. “What is it?”
“Did you wash the knife and put it back in your knife rack over there or did you bury it?”
Amber froze, gaping at her in wide-eyed shock. “What did you just say?”
Keith came in through the kitchen door now. All three of them were in there together.
“After you slashed Professor Procter’s throat,” Des said to them, “did you two hide the murder weapon in plain sight or did you bury it?”
He swallowed hard but did not respond. Just moved closer to his beloved bride, draping a beefy arm around her.
“Because if you did bury it,” Des continued, “then my money’s on that ton of cedar mulch piled out in the driveway. I’m guessing that the troopers never got around to digging it up. And they sure won’t be bothering now. Why would they, right?” On their stunned silence she added, “I’m guessing your bloody clothes are under there, too.”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, Des,” Amber said quietly. “But are you still feeling the effects of that bump on your head?”
“Thanks for asking, but I feel fine. Plenty well enough to take care of business before I got here.”
“Business?” Amber’s big dark eyes bored in on hers. “What business?”
“Well, I had a nice chat on the phone with Professor Robert Sorin, who was Richard’s closest friend on the Wesleyan faculty. You remember him, don’t you, Amber? Lives up in Moodus? He sure remembers you. Professor Sorin has been away at an academic conference in Yellow Springs, Ohio. He got home late last night and was real shaken when he heard about Richard’s death on the news. Given that his friend is no longer alive, Professor Sorin was willing to share with me something Richard told him a couple of months ago in the strictest confidence. Which was that he’d become romantically involved with a former student. A young Dorset woman who’s now a grad student at Yale. And married. Kind of sounds like someone we know, doesn’t she?”
Amber lowered those big dark eyes and stared down at the pink and yellow linoleum floor, wringing her hands.
Des kept going. “Keith, I also had a chance to read this morning’s Boston Globe from front to back.”
Keith raised his square chin at her challengingly. “So…?”
