He stepped back, cursing. “Hey, haven’t you heard of the First Amendment? You jerk!”
The security guard, still grinning like a mad scientist, said over the loudspeaker, “Sure, you little shit, and Prince Charles is a Tampax.”
Ramsey heard that. It made no sense at all. It all of a sudden seemed hilarious. He began to laugh. Molly joined him. They walked into the house, holding hands, laughing their heads off.
“Oh, dear,” Miles said.
BOTH Miles and Gunther had alibis. Warren O’Dell also had an alibi. So did Eve Lord. Of all things, three of her friends had come over for a visit. They’d been drinking iced tea by the swimming pool at the time of Mason Lord’s shooting.
The media had exploded. Since Eve was young, beautiful, extravagantly rich, she garnered immense sympathy and support, bolstered by the media, who always wallowed in beauty and money, particularly if it was possibly tragic beauty.
Molly’s mother had expressed sympathy, but wasn’t about to fly back to the U.S. “Why ever should I, my dear? I have no desire to hold his limp hand or let the paparazzi leap out of bushes at me. Just keep me informed, Molly.”
Not unexpected, Molly thought, given that the new Mrs. Lord was young enough to be her daughter, and that her ex-husband hadn’t been in her life for a good number of years.
Mason Lord, who lay unconscious, his life in the balance, was nearly forgotten. The attention was on the beautiful young wife, who just might at any moment become a widow. But then again, to be fair, what reporter wanted to risk his own neck questioning the background of Mason Lord?
He survived that night. They’d nearly lost him once, but they’d been able to control his blood pressure with a medication dripping into his IV, and he seemed stable. Molly and Ramsey hadn’t gone back that morning, staying with Emma and watching as Eve Lord negotiated her way through the press when she visited her husband, all in glorious color on a special news bulletin on all three major local stations.
“I wish I had a clue as to what she was thinking,” Molly said.
“So does Detective O’Connor,” Ramsey said. He turned to see Emma walking slowly into the living room. “Hi, Em,” Molly said. “Come on in and tell us what Miles is making for lunch.”
Emma just stood there, holding her piano against her, looking bewildered. “Mama, when can we go home?”
Home, Molly thought. Which home?
“Where would you like to go?” Ramsey asked. He patted his knee. Emma went to him instantly. She carefully set her piano down on the floor beside the sofa and let him lift her onto his legs.
“Where?” he asked again.
“Home,” Emma said. “To San Francisco.”
“Ah,” Ramsey said. “You got it right. What would you say, Em, if your mom and I were to get married?”
She turned to look up at him. She slowly raised her hand to lightly stroke his cheek. She said with all a child’s appalling candor, “My daddy just died, Ramsey. He wasn’t with us much, but he was my daddy.”
“Yes, he was. He’ll always be your daddy.”
“I don’t think so,” Emma said then. She leaned against his chest, her cheek against his shoulder. “I can’t take the chance, Ramsey, I just can’t.”
“What chance, sweetheart?”
“If you married Mama, someone might blow you up too.”
“Oh, Emma,” he said, and hugged her tightly against him. “No one’s going to hurt me, no one.”
“They already did. You got shot in the leg at the cabin and when my daddy blew up your back got hurt, too.”
“Just minor stuff. A big guy like me can take lots of minor stuff. Don’t worry, Em. Please.” She leaned down to pick up her piano. Her security blanket, he thought, wondering what the hell to do. “You know something, Emma?”
She lightly stroked her finger on middle C, not looking at him. Afraid to look at him, he thought.
“I think when we’re all a family and everything’s okay again, we’re going back to Ireland. Shall we all spend our honeymoon at Bunratty Castle?”