that? I’m considering that we’re now officially engaged.
“Ah, good, here’s Hatch. Is that cigarette smoke I smell, Hatch?
Adam won’t like that. He’ll probably take a good strip off you for
that, maybe hit you with his walker.”
She watched the two men argue, smiling. Sherlock came up behind
her and said, “Everything nearly back to normal, I see. Let’s
watch CNN. Gaylan Woodhouse is going to be on in about a
minute. He’s speaking for the president, and you’re going to love
this spin.”
Good grief, she thought, “watching the TV, she was now a heroine.
Someone, she had no idea who, had somehow taken a photo,
very grainy, showing her facing Krimakov on that burning roof,
her white nightgown blowing around her legs, her Coonan held in
front of her in both hands, pointed straight at Krimakov. Gaylan
Woodhouse wouldn’t shut up. “Oh dear,” Becca said. “Oh dear.”
“It’s been a long haul, and you came through,” Sherlock said, and
hugged her tightly. “I’m really glad to have met you, Becca Matlock,
and I like your being a heroine. I have this feeling that you,
Adam, and your father will be coming to lots of barbecues over at
our house, beginning when they get out of this joint. Did I tell you
that Savich is a vegetarian? When we barbecue, he eats roasted corn
on the cob. We won’t know about Sean and his preferences for a
while yet. Have you agreed to the date and that marvelous Presbyterian
Church your in-laws have been members of for years and
years?”
“Not yet,” Becca said. “Hey, I’m so famous maybe I’ll ask if the
churches want to place bids for our ceremony.”
You’re a writer, you could write a book, make a gazillion
bucks.”
‘She’ll have to make it fast,” Savich said, coming up and squeez
ing his wife against his chest, “fame is fleeting nowadays. Another
week,Becca, and you’ll be a last-page footnote in People magazine.”
The next day, Becca flew to Portland, Maine, rented a Ford Escort,
and drove up to Riptide. It was cooler this trip, the breeze sharp
off the ocean. The first person she saw was Sheriff Gaffney, and he
was frowning at her, his thumbs hooked in his wide leather belt.
“Ms. Matlock,” he said, and gave her his best intimidating cop look.
“Hi, Sheriff,” she said, grinned at him, and went up on her tiptoes.
She gave him a big kiss on the cheek. “I’m famous, at least for
a week, that’s what I was told. Be nice to me.”
For the life of him, Sheriff Gaffney couldn’t think of a thing to
say except “Humph,” which he did. “I’ll want to speak to you
about that skeleton,” he called after her. “I’ll come to Jacob Marey’s
house this evening. Will you be there?”
“Certainly, Sheriff, I’ll be there.”
Then she ran into Bernie Bradstreet, the owner and editor of The Riptide Independent. He looked very tired, as if he’d been ill.
“My wife’s been sick,” he said, then he tried to smile at her. “At
least all your troubles are over, Ms. Matlock.” He didn’t mention
how she’d lied to him that long-ago night when Tyler had taken
her out to dinner at Errol Flynn’s Barbecue on Foxglove Avenue.
He was a good man, bless him.
And then she was knocking on Tyler’s front door just as the sun
was setting. The insects were beginning their evening songs. She
heard a dog bark from a house farther down on Gum Shoe Lane. She
wished she’d brought a cardigan. She shivered, rang the bell again.
Tyler’s car wasn’t in the driveway.
Where was he? Where was Sam?
She didn’t understand it. She’d told him when she’d be here and
she was only ten minutes off. She got back in her rental car and cut
over to Belladonna, to Jacob Marley’s house. She’d paid the rent
through the end of the month, so the place was still hers. She planned
to use this time to pack up the rest of her things, have the place
cleaned, and return the keys to Rachel Ryan. Surely Rachel was
spending a lot of time with Sam, helping him. She hoped Rachel was