Fat Crack went on ahead. Rita limped after him with Davy holding tightly to her good hand. Diana waited at the front door, holding it open. 'Welcome home,' she said.
'Thank you.'
There was a strange formality between the two women, as though neither knew quite how to behave in the presence of Rita's blood kin. 'Do you want him to take your things out back?' Diana asked.
Rita nodded. 'I'll go, too. I want to rest.'
Davy started to follow her, but Diana called him back.
'You and the dog go outside and play,' she said. 'Rita's tired.'
His face fell in disappointment, but Rita came to Davy's rescue. 'It's okay. They can both come along. I missed them.'
Despite DuShane's ass-chewing, Brandon still hung around the office.
He wanted to be there in case his mother called, and he didn't want to miss any messages from Geet Farrell. He took the time to read the Arizona Sun cover to cover, including both the brief account of Toby Walker's ill-fated joy-riding incident, and the much longer front-page article about the brutal stabbing of Johnny Rivkin, a well-known Hollywood costume designer, knifed to death in his downtown Tucson hotel room.
Brandon read about the bloody Santa Rita murder with a professional's interest in what was going on, to see what his competition at Tucson PD was doing on the case. He routinely read about homicides committed in the city in case something in the killer's MO coincided with one of his unsolved county cases. In this instance, nothing rang a bell.
Several times he was tempted to call Diana Ladd to check on how she was doing, but each time he reconsidered. He'd been summarily thrown out of the woman's house both times he'd been there. She wasn't exactly keeping the welcome mat out for him. Brandon Walker knew he was a dog for punishment, but Diana Ladd dished out more abuse than even he was willing to take.
Every time he thought about that exasperating woman.
he shook his head. He wanted so much to make her see reason, to help her understand the error of her ways. It was crazy for her to hole up in that isolated fortress of hers and wait for disaster to strike.
Supposing her idea did work. Supposing Andrew Carlisle showed up, and she somehow managed to blow him away. What would happen then? Maybe Carlisle would be dead; but so might she.
Whatever the outcome, Walker was convinced an armed confrontation would irreparably harm Davy.
Diana didn't realize that her son was a fragile child, Brandon decided.
Women always thought their male offspring tougher than they were in actual fact. Davy needed something from his mother, something he wasn't getting.
Brandon couldn't tell quite what it was, but he sat there thinking about it, wishing he could help.
Gradually, as time passed, a plan began to form in his mind. He would help, after all, whether or not Diana Ladd wanted him to, whether or not she even knew it. As soon as Brandon got off work that afternoon, he would take the county car home, borrow his mother's, stop by the hospital long enough to check on his parents, and then head out for Gates Pass. He'd lie in wait outside Diana's house all night long if necessary. If Andrew Carlisle actually showed up out there, he'd run up against something he didn't expect an armed cop rather than some wild-eyed latter-day Annie Oakley packing a loaded .45.
In fact, the more Brandon Walker thought about the idea, the better he liked it. As a cop, he had behaved responsibly in doing what he could to talk Diana Ladd out of her foolhardy scheme. But since she was too hardheaded to give up, Walker would use her as a magnet to draw Andrew Carlisle to him. Diana might be the tender morsel necessary to lure Carlisle into the snare, but Brandon Walker would be the steel-jawed trap.
Diana went into the kitchen to fix herself a glass of iced tea. The one dusty box she had carried in from the root cellar still sat on the kitchen table. Diana looked at the box and sighed. 'There's no time like the present,' she said aloud, quoting one of Iona's old maxims.
Squaring her shoulders, she found a butcher knife and attacked the aging layers of duct tape that sealed the box shut. The labeling may have been done by Francine, her stepmother, but the profligate use of duct tape was Max's specialty. Diana remembered the stack of boxes he had brought down to the car on the morning she left for school in Eugene.
Some of the other girls in her class had got real cedar chests for high school graduation, 'hope chests' they called them. When Max came with the boxes, Diana had no idea what they were.
'Those aren't mine,' she said. 'I can't take all that stuff.'
'Your mother says you're taking it,' Max said sourly.
She left, taking the boxes with her. It wasn't until she was unpacking in her tiny apartment over the garage that she discovered Iona had made a hope chest for her, too, one in cardboard not cedar, but with hand embroidered tea towels and napkins, crocheted doilies and tablecloths, a brand-new service-for-four set of Safeway-coupon Melmac dishes, and a heavy hand-pieced quilt. There were a few pots and pans, some cheap silverware, and a brand-new percolator.
Opening each box was an adventure, a reprise of a dozen Christmas mornings. Cloth goods were neatly ironed and folded, the edges crisp and straight. Glassware--there was even some of that-was individually wrapped in store bought tissue paper.
One at a time, as she took out each item and admired each bit of handiwork, Diana wondered how and when her mother had managed to amass such a treasure without arousing Diana's suspicions. After opening the last box, she rode her bike over to the Albertsons' and called home from the grocery-store pay phone.
'What's wrong?' Max demanded when he heard her voice. 'Long distance calls cost money. Did you get in a car wreck, or what?'
'Nothing's wrong,' Diana told him. 'Just let me talk to Mom.'
