Riptide

of
    days, Becca, and I'll go with you."
    "Adam, you can barely get to the bathroom by yourself now.
    You'll stay here and just concentrate on getting well. Spend time
    with my father. And maybe you could work on all those church
    dates as well. None of your family can come to an agreement."
    "Well, are you still going to marry me?"
    "Is that your final offer?"
    He looked both pissed and chagrined. Suddenly he laughed. "I
    swear I'll change that green tile. Do you mind moving from New
    York, living down here? We're really close to your dad. Is he going
    to rebuild?"
    "We haven't discussed it yet. Yes, Adam, I'll marry you, particularly
    if you change that bathroom tile. Consider it a done deal.
    I have no real ties to Albany. Goodness, there are so many folk
    around here who need good speechwriters. I'll make a fortune.

Now, you can't flirt with any of the hospital staff anymore, you got
    that? I'm considering that we're now officially engaged.
    "Ah, good, here's Hatch. Is that cigarette smoke I smell, Hatch?
    Adam won't like that. He'll probably take a good strip off you for
    that, maybe hit you with his walker."
    She watched the two men argue, smiling. Sherlock came up behind
    her and said, "Everything nearly back to normal, I see. Let's
    watch CNN. Gaylan Woodhouse is going to be on in about a
    minute. He's speaking for the president, and you're going to love
    this spin."
    Good grief, she thought, "watching the TV, she was now a heroine.
    Someone, she had no idea who, had somehow taken a photo,
    very grainy, showing her facing Krimakov on that burning roof,
    her white nightgown blowing around her legs, her Coonan held in
    front of her in both hands, pointed straight at Krimakov. Gaylan
    Woodhouse wouldn't shut up. "Oh dear," Becca said. "Oh dear."
    "It's been a long haul, and you came through," Sherlock said, and
    hugged her tightly. "I'm really glad to have met you, Becca Matlock,
    and I like your being a heroine. I have this feeling that you,
    Adam, and your father will be coming to lots of barbecues over at
    our house, beginning when they get out of this joint. Did I tell you
    that Savich is a vegetarian? When we barbecue, he eats roasted corn
    on the cob. We won't know about Sean and his preferences for a
    while yet. Have you agreed to the date and that marvelous Presbyterian
    Church your in-laws have been members of for years and
    years?"
    "Not yet," Becca said. "Hey, I'm so famous maybe I'll ask if the
    churches want to place bids for our ceremony."
    You're a writer, you could write a book, make a gazillion
    bucks."

    'She'll have to make it fast," Savich said, coming up and squeez

ing his wife against his chest, "fame is fleeting nowadays. Another
    week,Becca, and you'll be a last-page footnote in People magazine."

    The next day, Becca flew to Portland, Maine, rented a Ford Escort,
    and drove up to Riptide. It was cooler this trip, the breeze sharp
    off the ocean. The first person she saw was Sheriff Gaffney, and he
    was frowning at her, his thumbs hooked in his wide leather belt.
    "Ms. Matlock," he said, and gave her his best intimidating cop look.
    "Hi, Sheriff," she said, grinned at him, and went up on her tiptoes.
    She gave him a big kiss on the cheek. "I'm famous, at least for
    a week, that's what I was told. Be nice to me."
    For the life of him, Sheriff Gaffney couldn't think of a thing to
    say except "Humph," which he did. "I'll want to speak to you
    about that skeleton," he called after her. "I'll come to Jacob Marey's
    house this evening. Will you be there?"
    "Certainly, Sheriff, I'll be there."
    Then she ran into Bernie Bradstreet, the owner and editor of The Riptide Independent. He looked very tired, as if he'd been ill.
    "My wife's been sick," he said, then he tried to smile at her. "At
    least all your troubles are over, Ms. Matlock." He didn't mention
    how she'd lied to him that long-ago night when Tyler had taken
    her out to dinner at Errol Flynn's Barbecue on Foxglove Avenue.
    He was a good man, bless him.
    And then she was knocking on Tyler's front door just as the sun
    was setting. The insects were beginning their evening songs. She
    heard a dog bark from a house farther down on Gum Shoe Lane. She
    wished she'd brought a cardigan. She shivered, rang the bell again.
    Tyler's car wasn't in the driveway.
    Where was he? Where was Sam?
    She didn't understand it. She'd told him when she'd be here and

she was only ten minutes off. She got back in her rental car and cut
    over to Belladonna, to