years.
Unfortunately for Buzz, keeping this thing a secret would be totally impossible.
First of all, Ceepak stood up and insisted that we send Cap'n Pete's souvenir collection off to the State Forensics Lab and down to the FBI for DNA analysis. He also demanded that we post all our evidence on the Internet and try to link up with the vast network of missing person sites. Try to give a dozen grieving families some sense of closure.
Second, you have to figure people in town are already talking. Maybe they showed up for their pre-booked fishing charters and discovered that Cap'n Pete and his boat no longer existed. Maybe they went to the Sand Castle Competition and heard rumors about the “buried treasure” the bulldozer guys dug up over near the pirate scene. Maybe Norma told everybody she knows what turned up in the Whaling Museum. Maybe Amy Decosimo let out what strange booty was recently lining the shelves over at The Treasure Chest.
Word will seep out. The truth usually does. All it needs is a tiny little crack. I think that's why Ceepak never lies. As Gus might put it, “What's the freaking point?”
And the hitchhiker-the girl who went from being a redhead to a greenhead (no, not one of the flies)?
Her name is really Elizabeth, not Stacey, and her mother and father are flying in from Pittsburgh to pick her up and take her home. Put her back on her meds. They say she's sixteen and has “issues.” In the meantime, she's spending her final nights in Sea Haven as our guest. She has a cot in one of our cozier jail cells. Hey-that's what you get for stealing twenty bucks off a cop.
Seven-thirty P.M., we punch out.
No overtime this Friday. And the chief gave us both the weekend off. I don't think he wants us guarding the Sand Castle Competition. He's got his reasons.
“Are you free this evening?” Ceepak asks as we stroll down the front steps of police headquarters.
“What's up?” I ask.
“T. J. came home from New York this morning. Rita's having a barbecue to celebrate. We'll be grilling burgers and dogs over at my place.”
I'm surprised to hear that Ms. Lapczynski is willing to venture anywhere near open flames-propane, charcoal, or otherwise-but I'm in. Burnt meat and cold beer are two of my summertime favorites.
“Sounds cool,” I say.
“Good. See you there.”
I hop into my Jeep and zip over to the Qwick Pick to grab a couple bags of Ruffles. I figure I should bring something to the picnic table.
I also grab a couple Ring Dings. In case Rita didn't have time to make dessert. And a box of Milk-Bones. For Barkley, the best guard dog ever to shuffle out of the retirement home.
I toss the groceries into the back of my Jeep and head over to Ceepak's.
• • •
“Hey, man. Thanks for saving my mom.” It's T. J. He's manning the grill. He puts down his burger flipper and shakes my hand. “Brewski?”
“Thanks.”
He pries open the lid on the Igloo; I fish out a frosty longneck Bud. He's sipping a Dr Pepper-he's sixteen.
I twist open my beer and look over at Barkley, who's snoozing in the shade underneath the picnic table.
“I already gave him a couple burgers,” says T. J. “Without cheese. Cheese makes him fart.”
I nod. “Me too, man.”
T. J. nods, too. He can relate.
“Hey, Danny!”
It's Rita. Up at the top of the stairs. She's coming down the steps balancing a big bowl of potato salad and what appears to be a fresh-baked apple pie. Guess I'll save the Ring Dings for a rainy day. Ceepak's right behind her with bags of buns and squeeze bottles of ketchup and mustard.
He sets his stuff down on the picnic table.
“Danny?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Are you free tomorrow evening? Twenty-thirty hours?”
“So far's I know.”
“Awesome.” Ceepak takes Rita's hand. “We'd like you to be our best man. Will you?”
“Excuse me?”
“At our wedding,” says Rita.
“You guys are getting married?”
“Roger that.”
“I'm in charge of walking her down the aisle,” says T. J. “Barkley's going to be the ring bearer. We'll put 'em in a pouch on his collar.”
“Is this a church wedding?” I ask.
If it is, I might need to swing by Sears. Pick up a suit.
“Negative,” says Ceepak.
I guess he's had enough organized religion for one week.
“Judge Willoughby will preside,” says Rita. “It's a civil ceremony. On the beach at sunset.”
“I can't believe this,” I say. “This is so cool! Are you guys like registered anywhere? Do you need salad bowls or something?”
“Danny?” says Rita, beaming her impossibly radiant smile straight through my heart, making me feel better than I have in days. “Come on-answer the question! Will you stand up for us? Will you be our best man?”
I smile back.
“Sure. Absolutely.”
I say it with great gusto, even though I know it will be an extremely tough act to pull off. Practically impossible.
It's hard for anybody to be the so-called best man when John Ceepak is already standing there.
But I'll give it a shot.
