Page 42 of Sharp Force
At the bottom of the steps, I enter the code for the security system. I open the door for Benton, cold air rushing in.
“Thank God,” I tell him. “I was worried you’d never get here.”
“Nothing could keep me away,” he says as I reset the alarm instantly.
Benton smiles into my eyes, unbuttoning his black wool coat that accentuates his tall leanness, his striking chiseled features and platinum hair. The first time I laid eyes on him long ago when I was the new chief in Richmond, I found him impossibly handsome. I still do.
His cheeks and nose are red from the cold, and I take his briefcase, setting it on the entryway table.
“Hi.” He kisses me.
“I’m so glad you’re home safely.” I hold him tight, his coat damp, his skin chilled from the storm.
“Someone naughty has been in the liquor,” he teases.
“I had a finger of whisky.” I find his lips again, giving him another taste. “Did you notice anything unusual while you were walking up from the carriage house? I didn’t see anything on the monitor.”
“’Twas the night before, and nothing was stirring. Not even a mouse,” he says, and I think of Pinky, wondering if he was duped by Boursin cheese on a cracker.
“How about a drink?” I suggest. “After the day I’ve had, I’m ready for another one. Or two or three. And I know you must be. Or would you like to change first? Although I must confess you look irresistible in pinstripes.”
“I believe my dry gin martinis are in order. Shaken, not stirred. I can change later.”
“I don’t know… Gin after whisky, very risky,” I whisper into his ear.
“Since we’re all alone and don’t have to get up early? I think risky is what the doctor ordered.” He holds me close, resting his chin on top of my head, sniffing my hair. “You must have showered.”
“In my office before I headed home,” I reply. “And you should be grateful.”
“I always am.”
“I hope it’s okay that we’re leaving tomorrow.” I confess my misgivings. “Dorothy and Marino aren’t getting along. The weirdness on the driveway when I got home. I worry the Slasher’s about to strike again and meanwhile Dana Diletti insists on staying alone in her house. There’s so much going on, Benton.”
“When isn’t there? And we always feel this way on the rare occasion we take time off,” he says, and it’s true.
“On top of that, Maggie is causing trouble,” I tell him as he hangs up his coat. “She’s demanding to know the details of the Rowdy O’Leary autopsy. I’ve not answered any of her questions.”
“Why would she be interested?” Benton takes off his boots.
“Somebody’s put a bug in her ear about that case and the skeletal remains from Mercy Island.” I continue updating him. “In other words, she’s playing politics and doing favors.”
Passing through the living room, I’m aware of familiar odors that make me feel at home. Bee’s Oil wood conditioner. Bayberrycandles. Burnt logs. The ceiling-high artificial Christmas tree reminds me how much I don’t like glitzy lights and tacky ornaments.
But holiday decorations are a concession I make to my sister and Marino. As he explained to Reba O’Leary while we were in her home, Dorothy typically starts in right after Thanksgiving. Every year she feels compelled to outdo the last, adding something different and more outrageous.
This time it’s the life-size plastic Santa Claus in a hooded red velvet robe, waiting by the fireplace hearth with a sack of fake wrapped presents. As sensors detect Benton and me walking by, Santa lights up, moving his eyes. His puppet mouth opens and shuts as he shouts:
“MERRY CHRISTMAS! HO! HO! HO…!” Over and over.
Our feet are silent on antique rugs that have been in the Wesley family for generations. We maneuver around the rosewood baby grand piano that Dorothy and Lucy play by ear. It once belonged to Benton’s grandmother, and I’m reminded that it’s been a while since I had it tuned.
Beyond the dining room, I push open the saloon-style swinging door that leads into the kitchen. I turn on the lights, the green-patinated copper sconces glowing on old bricks showing through plaster. Polished copper pots and pans gleam from the rack over the wooden butcher block, and this time of year we enjoy the corner fireplace.
Benton finds the bottle of Boodles gin, the jar of fat green olives stuffed with pimento. He opens a cabinet for two long-stemmed martini glasses and the copper shaker. While he bartends, I begin defrosting bread dough, and meatballs I make in a savory tomato sauce. I find a cutting board and knife.
I dice the tomatoes and cucumbers, the sweet onions andpeppers I picked this morning in the refurbished greenhouse that’s heated in the winter. I keep remembering the crashing noises in the woods as Marino was leaving. Wild animals would be interested in the produce I grow in the warm, moist air of the steel-and-glass enclosure.
“I don’t believe it was a deer, a coyote, a bear, anything real. The red orbs looked like the eyes of the hologram we’ve seen on video.” I bring it up again. “And that’s what Lucy thinks it was.”
