* * *
Easter Sunday I awoke to the sound of rain pelting against my bedroom window and strained to reach my watch on the bedside table. Eight thirty, lots of time to get ready to go to the Basilica. Best of all, no headache, so despite the gray start, it looked like it might turn out to be a good day.
I showered and dressed, and smelled bacon and fresh brewed coffee as I headed for the kitchen.
“Happy Easter,” Brenda called and leaned her cheek in my direction for a kiss.
“Happy Easter,” I said. “Where’s Rich?”
“Straggling.”
“Good. I have something to give him. Just a little thank you. You think I need to wrap it?”
“A present?” she asked, her eyes widening in delight.
“It’s not much.”
When I didn’t offer any other information, she said, “I’m sure it’ll be just fine without it.” I could tell she wanted to know more, but she didn’t ask and I didn’t volunteer.
The placek still sat on the counter and I grabbed a knife from the drawer, cut a slice from the undamaged end, and plopped it on a plate.
“Where’d that come from?” Brenda asked.
“Just something I picked up.”
I sat at the table, grabbing the front section of the newspaper. No headline screamed of Sharon’s arrest. Stupid, really. I’d only told Hayden about her the afternoon before. Warrants and such take time. In the unlikely event he had gone after her, it wouldn’t have gotten in the paper yet anyway. Nielsen hadn’t written about me either. Again, yet.
Despite Sophie’s advice to trust that Sharon would be nailed by the cops, I thought about Sam Nielsen’s offer. If Hayden didn’t act on my evidence within a week, I’d call the newspaper and tell the reporter everything. He promised he protected his sources, and my revelations might force Detective Hayden to take Sharon Walker seriously.
That decided, I studied the national headlines. I couldn’t get excited about the latest threat to peace in the Middle East and grabbed the comics instead. Richard came in about the time I finished Hagar the Horrible.
“I see you’re stimulating your mind,” he said in greeting, brushed past me to Brenda, giving her a perfunctory kiss, then stood back, his chest puffed out. “Coffee, woman!”
Hands on her hips, she gazed at him speculatively. “You know where the cups are.”
I tried to stifle a smile—impossible—turning my attention back to the paper. In a moment, a steaming cup of coffee appeared in front of me. Richard brought out the sugar bowl and creamer.
“Thanks.”
“You’re looking chipper this morning,” he said, doctoring his own coffee. “And dare I say it, you even look healthier?”
“It’s because my heart is true.” I poured milk into my cup, stirred it, and took a sip. “Good coffee. You could be in a commercial, Brenda.”
“They couldn’t pay me enough,” she said, and started breaking eggs into a bowl. “Fried or scrambled?”
“I’m just going to have this placek,” I said.
“You don’t eat enough to keep a bird alive,” Brenda said, but I knew she wouldn’t force feed me, either.
“Scrambled, please,” Richard said, grabbing a piece of the paper.
“How come we’re not eating those hardboiled eggs we did Friday?” I asked.
“They’re just to look at,” Brenda said.
“It’s a waste not to eat them. I could make deviled eggs after Mass.”
“Okay, but I want to take a picture of them first. Richard, where’s our camera?”
Richard’s nose was buried in the newspaper. “It’s around here somewhere. I’ll find it later.”
Brenda nodded toward Richard, her eyes nearly bulging. I frowned, not comprehending. ‘The present,’ she mouthed.
I nodded. “Uh, Rich. You got a minute?”
I waited for him to put the paper down—at least ten seconds. He seemed impatient.
“Now that all this stuff about the murder is more or less over, I wanted to thank you for helping me out, carting me around, being patient, and a good brother, and all that crap.”
Okay, so I’m not much of a speechmaker. I took the tissue-wrapped packet from my pocket, handed it to him.
He blinked at me. “You shouldn’t have,” he said automatically.
“It’s not much. Just something I thought you might like.”
Puzzled, he studied my face for a long moment. Brenda came up behind him, watching. He fumbled with the wrapping and pulled the beaded chain from the tissue.
“Ivory’s not politically correct any more, but what the hell.”
“It’s a rosary, isn’t it?” Brenda said.
“It belonged to our mother. Your father gave it to her. It meant a lot to her.”
He stared at it for a long time, his expression unreadable. He ran his thumb over the beads. “I never had anything of hers. I don’t even have a photo of her.”
I reached over, clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, now you’ve got something. I think I can dig up a picture, too.”
“It’s beautiful,” he managed, voice husky.
“I should’ve given it to you years ago. I mean, it came from your father, not mine. For whatever it’s worth, I know she loved him a lot. She loved you a lot, too.”
“Thank you.” He cleared his throat, his watery eyes still fixed on the rosary.
“Happy Easter, Rich.”