Golden in Death (In Death 50)

“Is that it? Did we do it?”

“Mulch,” he said, jerked a thumb toward the wheelbarrow.

She traded the watering can for the shovel. “How much?”

“A good couple inches all around, I’m told.”

So they dumped mulch, smoothed, dumped and smoothed.

Then they stepped back, studied.

“We planted a tree.”

“And a lovely one at that. Wait.” He dug out his ’link, shifted her, slid an arm around her. “We’ll document it.”

“You never do that. You don’t take ’link shots.”

“How often do we plant a tree in the yard?”

“That would be … once.”

“There you have it. Smile.”

How could she help it?

He took the shot, pocketed the ’link. “We’ve earned that wine.” He unfolded one of his tools, used the corkscrew to open the bottle. Eve held the glasses while he poured.

Then they sat hip-to-hip on the bench with the young tree beside them and looked over the pond.

“So.” He kissed the top of her head. “Tell me what I can do to make the evening productive.”

“Not yet,” she decided. She put murder aside, tipped her head to his shoulder. “Let’s just be here for a few minutes.”

So they sat, drank wine while the water spilled, the lilies floated, and the shadows lengthened toward dusk.

By the time they went back inside, her mind felt sharp and clear and ready to reengage. Plus, she realized she wanted food.

“I’ll get dinner,” she began, but he trailed a finger down the dent in her chin.

“Update your board, as your mind’s back on it. I’ll get the meal.”

Well, the man knew her. Even though it meant pizza was off the menu, she did want to update her board, and have her thoughts lined up for when they sat down together.

Not pizza, but whatever he brought out as she worked smelled really good.

“How was your meeting with Grange?”

“I’ll start there, work my way through.” She walked to the table. Some sort of chicken with the herby rice she preferred to the white stuff, and a pile of mixed-up veggies. She could live with it.

“Grange,” she said, and began.

At one point, Roarke had to stop her. “Peabody? Our Peabody went at her?”

“Like a jungle cat on a snake. I had to stop her because I really think she was just getting started. Clearly, Grange isn’t used to someone saying fuck you. Or if they do, she’s used to crushing them like a bug.”

Enjoying the replay, Eve scooped up some of the herby stuff. “She also, clearly, expected me to take the polite and apologetic route, since I told Peabody to take a walk. Oh, and the suit, the outfit.” Eve ate more chicken, enjoyed the subtle bite of whatever it had been cooked in. “You were right about that.”

“Good.”