“Not to me it doesn’t. But if you love her so much why did you panic about marrying her?”
“Because I didn’t believe it. I was convinced she’d wake up on our honeymoon and realize she’d just made a terrible mistake. And want out. I couldn’t believe my luck. Still can’t. Someone as special as Amber wanting to be with me. So when I found out that she and Richard, that he’d taken her from me… I-I went nuts. Let my emotions get the best of me. That happens sometimes, especially after I’ve had a couple of beers. Not that I’m blaming Sam Adams. It’s my own damned fault.”
Des turned back to Amber. “And then you helped him dump Richard’s body and hide the evidence.”
“I owed him that much,” Amber acknowledged, her voice cracking. “I’m the one who cheated. I-I let Richard love me. I should have just come clean about it when we got back together. But Keith was so happy. We both were. So I buried it deep inside and I hoped it would go away. Only it didn’t. It was my fault, Des. I’m responsible for Richard’s death, not Keith.”
“So you phoned it in,” Des said. “And when I showed here you two handed me a made-up story, hoping you could live happily ever after. Except it doesn’t work that way, does it? You can’t build your life on something rotten. You have to pay the price. It’ll be better this way, hard as that is for you to imagine right now.”
“What happens now?” Keith sounded more like a sorrowful little boy with each passing moment. “Are you going to arrest us?”
“No, Lieutenant Tedone and Sergeant Snipes will do that.” Des heard them pull up outside right on time. She’d phoned them before she left home. Went to the front door now and let them in.
Then Des Mitry strode back up Sour Cherry Lane to tell the Sullivans’ landlady, Patricia Beckwith, that she was going to have herself another vacancy.
EPILOGUE
(ONE WEEK LATER)
To: Mitch Berger
From: Molly Procter
Subject: Hey
Greetings from way up here in beautiful Blue Hill, Maine, where it still goes down into the 40s at night even though, duh, it’s July. It’s pretty okay here on the farm. I miss Big Sister and all of Bella’s kitties but Aunt Meggie has let me adopt a golden retriever puppy. He is big footed and sweet and kind of doofusy. I’ve named him Mitch. Hope you don’t mind. And if you do, well, too bad. He already knows his name!
My mom is doing okay with her Work Farm Rehab, as she calls it. She’s doesn’t smile or laugh as much as she used to. But she looks much better, and puts in what Meggie’s partner Susan calls “an honest day’s work.” Here in Maine, that’s what passes for high praise, mister! Mom is even talking about starting a new Molly book, which would be great because we could use the money. Farmers are really poor. Did you know that?
She’s not the only one who does “an honest day’s work” around here. I’m now milking the goats like an old pro. We sell their milk to a cheese maker down the road. I also take care of the chickens and help tend the garden. Our veggie garden is huge. Everything is organic. Susan takes what we grow to a green market twice a week where chefs from all kinds of fancy restaurants in Portland and even Boston buy it.
You’d like it here, Mitch. Lots of really weird neighbors. A few kids my age. One really annoying boy named Connor who lives on the farm next to ours and just won’t leave me alone. He has a crush on me that is so totally not mutual. I’m at least eight inches taller than he is. Seriously, I can drive to the hoop on him at will. But I let him score a bucket or two on me every once in a while just so he won’t give up.
I still work on my game for one hour every day. Coach Geno has recruited girls from as far away as Alaska (check out Jessica Moore’s bio if you don’t believe me). So I’m not off of the UConn radar screen even if I am a million miles away. If there’s talent out there, Geno will find it. And I’m the real deal. I know this.
We don’t have a TV. Meggie and Susan don’t believe in it. But I should be able to download your new show from your Web site. So be careful what you say. I’m going to be watching you, mister!
Anyway, I just wanted to say hi and tell you not to worry about me. I’m fine. I think about my dad an awful lot even though he’s gone. But Meggie says that’s an okay thing to do. He would want me to remember him, and I shouldn’t fight it. So I’m not.
I think about you a lot, too. Can you come and see me some time? Alone? Don’t bring what’s-her-face with you, if you don’t mind. Your English girlfriend. See, I still believe that you and Trooper Des are supposed to be together. I will believe this for as long as I live.
Your pal, Molly p.s. It’s only summer training camp and your Knicks already suck.
The early morning fog hung low over Santa Monica, totally obscuring the ultra-expensive view of the Pacific from Mitch’s twelfth-floor balcony. In the heat of the day the dense fog would gradually morph into a gassy, sepia-tinted haze that smelled of rotten peaches. Just another spectacular day in paradise, Mitch reflected gloomily as he stood there in his complimentary Four Seasons terry cloth robe, sipping his coffee. He had yet another production meeting scheduled for this morning. This after huddling for hours and hours yesterday with the network suits-who had then taken him to dinner at some fashionable place in Malibu with Miss Hawaii and her Dodger soon-to-be husband. He felt bleary-eyed, sluggish and flabby today. Too many meetings. Too much rich food. He needed to hit the health club downstairs. Instead, he padded back inside his suite and started poring over his notes for today’s meeting.
His bedside phone rang. It was the concierge calling from down in the lobby. “Mr. Berger, I’m sorry to disturb you so early but there’s a young lady here at the front desk who says you’re expecting her. A Miss Naughton?”
“I certainly am,” Mitch exclaimed, brightening instantly. “Send her right up, please.”
Cecily had finally made it down from San Francisco for a little full frontal pas de deux. Perfect timing on her part. Hurriedly, Mitch gathered up the newspapers and clothes that were strewn everywhere. The place was halfway presentable by the time he heard her tapping at the door.
“Welcome to L.A., luv!” he called out, flinging it open.
It wasn’t Cecily.
Des Mitry stood out there in the hall, a leather shoulder bag thrown over one arm and an 18-by-24 inch drawing pad tucked under the other. She wore a pale yellow linen shirt, jeans and an exceedingly wary look.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, staring at her in shock.
“I was on my way to Disneyland. Thought I’d pay you a visit. Bella told me where I could find you.”
He shook his head at her, dumfounded. “Des, what is this?”
“Okay so there’s something I wanted to say to you,” she confessed. “I flew in on the red-eye to say it. May I come in or do I have to do it out here?”
Mitch let her in, eying her up and down. He hadn’t gotten a real good look at her the night he rescued her from that root cellar. “You’ve gotten awfully skinny, you know.”
“Back at you, relatively speaking.”
“I’ve been working out with a trainer a little.”
“You’ve been working out with a trainer a lot. I guess this means I don’t call you doughboy anymore. What’ll I…?”
“You can make it Armando, if you’d like.”