“I can’t wait,” she whispered, her heart soaring as the weight of the decision lifted, all of her doubts scattering to the four winds. “And, let me tell you this, Santana. I’m serious about this, okay? This time it’s forever. So don’t even think about backing out of the marriage. Otherwise I might just have to shoot you.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he vowed.
“I’m dead serious when it comes to the ‘till death do us part.’ ”
“Then let’s hope that death parting us is a long way off.” Before she could say another word, he kissed her as if he meant every promise, his lips molding to hers, his arms surrounding her as they rolled as one onto the floor. Melting against him, hearing the steady beat of his heart, in counterpoint to her own, she told herself this was the right decision, that nothing bad would ever happen to them, that they would be together forever.
“Make love to me,” he whispered against the shell of her ear.
Outside the wind began to howl, the storm suddenly intensifying, and with the instant rush of wind, the fire flashed brighter for a second.
Feeling her body respond to his touch, she told herself that they would make love until they were breathless, that they would love each other until they got old, that time was not racing through the hourglass, and that something dark and horrifying did not lie in wait.
But deep beneath the surface of all of her hopes and dreams, under the bravado and self-confidence that she forever called up and in a place she barely acknowledged, she knew that she was lying to herself, that somewhere the patient, but relentless angel of death was simply biding his time.
Chapter 27
“I just don’t understand why I’m here,” Bess Brewster said for the second time since dropping into one of the visitor’s chairs in what was now Brewster’s office, though there were still boxes stacked in one corner, all clearly marked in bold black marker: PROPERTY OF SHERIFF DANIEL GRAYSON.
It all seemed so wrong, almost surreal, Alvarez thought. Seated in another visitor’s chair next to Bess, with Brewster now firmly in Grayson’s old executive chair situated on the other side of the desk, she’d already asked a few preliminary questions and Mrs. Brewster was not happy about it.
Trim and petite, Bess was in her late forties and just beginning to show the signs of middle age. A few wrinkles fanned from intense blue eyes, a little sag was visible under her chin, and gray hairs that she hadn’t yet decided to disguise were visible in her no-nonsense bob of thick blond hair. No doubt, she’d been a head-turning beauty in her youth.
Just like her daughters, Alvarez thought, scanning a few of the photographs arranged on Brewster’s newly claimed credenza. Four daughters, all blond, like their mother, all blooming into beautiful women. A picture of Heidi was front and center, Cort Brewster’s youngest, the one he referred to as his “princess” and clearly the prettiest. In the photo she was dressed in a long, strapless gown in a shimmery aqua fabric, and tucked into her sun-streaked hair was a glittering tiara, as if indeed she were royalty, if only prom princess.
“I’m your wife, Cort, not some common criminal or suspect,” she said, obviously agitated. Her spine was stiff, two points of color showing on her high cheekbones.
“Bess, honey, it’s just standard procedure. You know that. All of Kathy’s friends and family are being questioned.” Hooking a thumb at his chest, he said, “Even me. And I’m the sheriff.”
Acting sheriff, Alvarez thought silently.
“It was bad enough two weeks ago, having to explain about your gun,” she complained. “All those questions. As if I knew what had happened to it.”
Brewster said to Alvarez, “A rifle was stolen from the house. Probably kids.”
“Not any kids the girls associate with!” Bess jumped in. Then, looking at Alvarez, she said, “Someone broke into the basement, but that door never locks properly.” She shot her husband a damning look. “It was supposed to be repaired months ago.”
“Bess, stop. It’s been fixed now. All that was taken was the rifle and an old laptop in the basement. They didn’t even bother looking for the shells.”
“If you’d ever clean out all that stuff down there . . . you’re lucky they didn’t get into your college things or all that military memorabilia you have stashed away. Cort, it’s been years.”
“Bess, enough. I’ll work on it.” To Alvarez, he reaffirmed, “It was probably kids from the neighborhood. I reported it.”
“Has the rifle been found?” she asked him.
“No.” He shook his head. “Remington .30-06.”
“The same caliber as the weapon used in the attacks on Grayson and Samuels-Piquard.”
“What?” Bess gasped. “Oh, no. You don’t think . . .” Her eyes rounded. “Would someone have stolen your gun, Cort, and then used it to kill Kathy?”
“That’s pretty far-fetched,” he said, but obviously from the worried look in his eyes, it had crossed his mind, if only fleetingly.
“Stranger things have happened,” Alvarez said, making a note.
“I suppose, though I hate to think that some kid—” Brewster started.
Bess broke in, “You don’t know who broke in and neither do I. Maybe it wasn’t a kid, but a criminal, the kind that would go out and shoot an innocent woman!”