out of me.”
I crossed to stand in front of him. “Rocky’s a police dog. Best keep that in mind.”
“He doesn’t look like one.”
Meaning a K-9.
“Don’t let that fool you,” I said. “Make a wrong move and you’ll see. He’ll take a bite out of crime.”
Rocky could fetch a gun and climb ladders. I’d seen him do it ( Antiques Knock-Off ).
Roger grunted. “I best behave, then.... Brandy?”
“Yes?”
“ You don’t think I’m a bully, do you?”
“Of course not.” Well, maybe a little. What man isn’t, under the right (or wrong) circumstances? “You’re just a good dad who cares about his son.”
“I love him to pieces,” Roger said, a tremble in his voice as he hung his head. “I don’t know what I’d do if something ever really—”
I touched his shoulder. “I understand. But please remember . . . I love him, too.”
For the record? Roger was a decent man. Okay, maybe a little controlling. But then, hadn’t I been looking for a father figure, someone to take control? He was the knight in shining armor who whisked me away from boring Serenity and maddening Mother, to live in his castle in a high-end Chicago suburb. I was just a small-town Cinderella trying to fit in, busying myself with motherhood, charity works, and playing the exemplary executive’s wife. But I was too immature, and the ten-year difference in age between us became an ever-widening chasm. And in the end I screwed things up.
I said, “Have breakfast with us.”
He swallowed and smiled a little. “Okay.”
Despite the morning’s inauspicious beginning, we had a surprisingly pleasant breakfast around the Duncan Phyfe dining room table. I had Yummy Eggs, too, while Roger and Mother opted for French toast coated in corn flakes and smothered in rich maple syrup. No recipe for that, I’m afraid—strictly a “by guess and by gosh” process, as Mother put it.
After the meal, Roger headed out, taking Jake with him; my ex had rushed here in a hurry, without packing any clothes or toiletries, so he needed to buy a few things.
Roger’s Hummer was barely out of sight when the current man in my life, Chief Brian Lawson, pulled up in my battered Buick, followed by a squad car driven by Officer Munson. Brian hopped out and moved quickly up the walk. He was in a navy shirt with a white tie and brown slacks, his badge pinned to his belt, a revolver on his hip.
I met him at the front door, still in my robe from last night. “Good morning.”
“Morning. I was just going to leave your car keys in the mailbox here. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. I’ve been up a while. Would you like to come in? I think there’s some breakfast left.”
He shook his head. His smile was friendly but reserved. “I have to get back. But I do need to say something.”
That sounded a little ominous.
“Okay.”
He let out a weight-of-the-world sigh. “I’m trying to keep this murder under wraps for the time being. Sort of a press blackout.”
“Oh. Why is that?”
“Bruce Spring is a national media figure. A reality show host and big-time producer, getting hacked to pieces in a house where the same thing happened sixty years ago?”
“It’ll attract attention.” I let out my own weight-of-the-world sigh. “Just like that media mess last summer.” ( Antiques Knock-Off.) “Are we gonna have to go through junk like that again?”
He nodded glumly, a hand on the handle of his holstered weapon. “Probably. But I’m trying to keep that fuss from kicking in till we’ve had a few days to investigate. Last thing we need right now is a media circus.”
“But as soon as it gets out that Bruce Spring’s been murdered—”
He raised a hand. “His real name was Bruce Robert Springstein. I’m listing him as a murder victim named Robert Springstein. And the dismemberment aspect of the crime I’m keeping hush-hush for now.”
“What about Spring’s people at his network?”
“I’ve questioned that
I crossed to stand in front of him. “Rocky’s a police dog. Best keep that in mind.”
“He doesn’t look like one.”
Meaning a K-9.
“Don’t let that fool you,” I said. “Make a wrong move and you’ll see. He’ll take a bite out of crime.”
Rocky could fetch a gun and climb ladders. I’d seen him do it ( Antiques Knock-Off ).
Roger grunted. “I best behave, then.... Brandy?”
“Yes?”
“ You don’t think I’m a bully, do you?”
“Of course not.” Well, maybe a little. What man isn’t, under the right (or wrong) circumstances? “You’re just a good dad who cares about his son.”
“I love him to pieces,” Roger said, a tremble in his voice as he hung his head. “I don’t know what I’d do if something ever really—”
I touched his shoulder. “I understand. But please remember . . . I love him, too.”
For the record? Roger was a decent man. Okay, maybe a little controlling. But then, hadn’t I been looking for a father figure, someone to take control? He was the knight in shining armor who whisked me away from boring Serenity and maddening Mother, to live in his castle in a high-end Chicago suburb. I was just a small-town Cinderella trying to fit in, busying myself with motherhood, charity works, and playing the exemplary executive’s wife. But I was too immature, and the ten-year difference in age between us became an ever-widening chasm. And in the end I screwed things up.
I said, “Have breakfast with us.”
He swallowed and smiled a little. “Okay.”
Despite the morning’s inauspicious beginning, we had a surprisingly pleasant breakfast around the Duncan Phyfe dining room table. I had Yummy Eggs, too, while Roger and Mother opted for French toast coated in corn flakes and smothered in rich maple syrup. No recipe for that, I’m afraid—strictly a “by guess and by gosh” process, as Mother put it.
After the meal, Roger headed out, taking Jake with him; my ex had rushed here in a hurry, without packing any clothes or toiletries, so he needed to buy a few things.
Roger’s Hummer was barely out of sight when the current man in my life, Chief Brian Lawson, pulled up in my battered Buick, followed by a squad car driven by Officer Munson. Brian hopped out and moved quickly up the walk. He was in a navy shirt with a white tie and brown slacks, his badge pinned to his belt, a revolver on his hip.
I met him at the front door, still in my robe from last night. “Good morning.”
“Morning. I was just going to leave your car keys in the mailbox here. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. I’ve been up a while. Would you like to come in? I think there’s some breakfast left.”
He shook his head. His smile was friendly but reserved. “I have to get back. But I do need to say something.”
That sounded a little ominous.
“Okay.”
He let out a weight-of-the-world sigh. “I’m trying to keep this murder under wraps for the time being. Sort of a press blackout.”
“Oh. Why is that?”
“Bruce Spring is a national media figure. A reality show host and big-time producer, getting hacked to pieces in a house where the same thing happened sixty years ago?”
“It’ll attract attention.” I let out my own weight-of-the-world sigh. “Just like that media mess last summer.” ( Antiques Knock-Off.) “Are we gonna have to go through junk like that again?”
He nodded glumly, a hand on the handle of his holstered weapon. “Probably. But I’m trying to keep that fuss from kicking in till we’ve had a few days to investigate. Last thing we need right now is a media circus.”
“But as soon as it gets out that Bruce Spring’s been murdered—”
He raised a hand. “His real name was Bruce Robert Springstein. I’m listing him as a murder victim named Robert Springstein. And the dismemberment aspect of the crime I’m keeping hush-hush for now.”
“What about Spring’s people at his network?”
“I’ve questioned that
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