Page 37 of Killer on the Homestead
He’d gone up to his parents’ for dinner, both to help them learn the new security system, and to get their take on Rosalie’s sketches. But by the time he’d finally talked them into actuallyusingthe security system, and they’d sat down to dinner, he could only see how pale andoffhis father was and figured the sketches could wait.
He’d talk to Mom in the morning after Dad headed out for chores. She seemed sturdy enough to handle it, even if she was worried sick over Dad. So he’d made sure the security system was set, headed back to his cabin, then taken a pain pill and gone to bed. He’d actually slept well, and it had been a while on that front.
He supposed he’d taken Rosalie’s advice from the other day and tried to take care of himself so he would be able to take care of his parents.
In the morning, he considered not wearing his sling. His arm still ached, but wasn’t it time to move on? He drank some coffee, choked down a protein bar, and took a pain pill while heconsidered it. In the end, he slid it on. He’d wear it today, leave it off tonight, and hope that there was some kind of progress there. And that he didn’t have to remind himself and everyone else at abaseballgame what had happened to him.
He drove up to the main house, which was empty as he walked through it. Empty and not locked up. He was going to be mad about that, but he spotted his mother from the window that looked out over the backyard. She was attacking her garden. And Duncan knew his mother and her moods well enough to know this was a stress-filled planting morning.
So he went out back to help. He approached as she ruthlessly hoed a line of dirt.
“What can I do?” he asked by way of greeting.
Mom wiped her forehead with the back of her forearm. Her gaze dipped to his arm in the sling. “I’ve got it handled, honey.”
“You have to let me help, because I’m not going to be around tonight.” He probably couldn’t hoe much with his left hand, but he could plant. So he crouched next to the line of seedlings and started dropping them where he knew they belonged. He felt like a kid again, but in a kind of nostalgic, nice way.
“Where will you be tonight?” Mom asked, going back to the task of hoeing rows.
“I’m taking Rosalie to the Bent County High baseball game.”
Mom sent him a doleful look. “That’s not very romantic.”
“First, I wasn’t trying to beromantic.Second, baseball is very romantic, Mom.”
“I went to every one of your high-school baseball games, Duncan. There is nothing romantic about a bunch of sweaty boys—and girls, Sarabethisthe talk of the county, aside from you being back—throwing a ball around.”
It made him laugh in spite of himself. “Trust me. Rosalie wouldn’t have agreed to dinner or much else. This is…we’ll call it an easing-in.”
“Mmm.” Mom studied him. “Are you at least going to bring her flowers?”
“I’m going to bring her more information for our case,” he replied, dropping the last plant for this row. It hurt a little, but he began to scoop the dirt over the roots.
Mom sighed heavily. “Duncan. Honestly.”
“She won’t trust flowers.” Though it was tempting, just to see the narrow-eyed suspicion on her face. But since she was actually going out with him, he didn’t want to rile her up too much. There was a fine, careful line with Rosalie that required some…finesse.
Luckily, he’d spent most of his adult life learning the fine art of when to finesse an off-speed pitch and when to blast one right down the middle.
When it came to Rosalie… “She doesn’t trust much.”
“No, I don’t suppose she would.” Mom’s sigh was sympathetic this time. “I could throttle Tim Young for what he did to those girls. If he was alive. Joan too, for that matter. But make sure you understand, just because Audra got all the sweet, and Rosalie got all the sour, doesn’t mean she’s not tender under all that bite.”
He glanced up at his mother. Her cheeks were a little red from how hard she’d been working, and she scowled down at him like he’d done something wrong.
“You warning me off all of a sudden?”
“No, I’m not warning youoff.” She puffed out a breath. “Haven’t I been the one…? Oh, never mind. My point is… That girl is so busy looking out for everyone else, including us, by looking into this murder, even though she doesn’t have to. I just want you to understand, you should be looking out for her.”
It amused him that’s how his mother looked at it, that it would annoy Rosalie to belookedafter, that it was exactly what he wanted to do anyway. He’d spent most of the past fifteenyears—longer maybe—not being selfish, necessarily. The last few years he’d mentored some rookies, he’d given back, but that had always been about baseball. And sometimes that bled over into the personal if a teammate was making some bad choices off the field, but he’d never had the time,takenthe time, to take care of anyone who mattered to him just because of who they were.
His parents. A friend—romantic or not—that didn’t connect to a baseball uniform.
Even though he wished it wasn’tmurder, he was glad to be here, taking care where he could. Whether Mom, Dad, or Rosalie liked it or not.
“I do understand that,” Duncan said, getting back to his feet and brushing off his dirty knees with his good hand. “And you know why I do?”
“Because she’s got a pretty face?”
