Double Shot by Diane Mott Davidson Page A

everywhere: into the driveway, onto the crime-scene tape, onto all the cops and investigators moving to and fro. In a couple of places, the tape had broken free of its moorings and fluttered in the breeze like bright party ribbons. I was about to leap from Brewster’s Benz when he turned to me.
“Our security guy will check your phones, then I’ll call you if there are any developments. You have to promise me you’ll phone me if you hear anything.”
I did. I also thanked him. A cop called out that they were done with my van and I could take it. Within moments I was back in the driver’s seat, revving the engine and chugging away from John Richard’s house. I didn’t look back.

Tom’s Chrysler, covered with grit, sat in the driveway. That was a relief. On the street, there was another vehicle I recognized, but couldn’t quite place. It sported a bumper sticker that read: “The Episcopal Church Welcomes You.” Somebody was here from St. Luke’s. For this, too, I was thankful.
When I came through the door, Tom was right there. He folded me into a long, comforting hug.
“Where’s Arch?” I asked, my voice muffled.
“Upstairs with Father Pete. I called the church from Eileen’s. He was here when we arrived.” I burrowed into Tom’s shoulder, unable to think. “What do you want to do now?” Tom murmured. “Are you hungry? I barbecued some steaks for Arch and Father Pete. I made one for you, too, and saved it. It’s good cold.”
“Did Arch eat anything?”
“Not much. A few bites. And you’re already got women phoning from the church. I’m sure you’re not in any mood to return calls.”
“You’ve got that right.” I pulled away from him. “You know what I really want to do? Cook. More than anything, that’ll soothe my nerves.”
“No way.” Tom assessed my bruised arms and legs. “You’ve got to be in pain.”
“I promise to move slowly.”
I washed my hands and put on an apron. I didn’t have the apples to make a tarte tatin, so I just took out unsalted butter, eggs, and slivered almonds. I placed them on the counter and stared at myself, then tiptoed out of the kitchen and glanced up the stairs. With Arch’s door closed, I could barely hear Father Pete’s deep voice. I couldn’t make out Arch’s voice at all.
Back in the kitchen, I washed my hands again and told Tom to relax. He settled at our oak kitchen table and kept a watchful, dubious eye on me. Moving slowly, I gathered up flour, sugar, vanilla, and other ingredients I thought would make a delicate, crunchy cookie. As I toasted the almonds, I gave tom a report of all that had taken place at the department and with my new lawyer. He rolled his eyes and shook his head. His only comment was that, as he’d suspected, they’d taken him off the case. Formally, he was out of the loop. Sergeant Boyd, an old friend of his, had promised to keep him informed of anything he could pick up.
I smiled as I measured flour. I could just imagine Sergeant Boyd, his dark hair clipped in an unfashionable crew cut, his barrel-shaped body, his short, carrotlike fingers. Like Tom, he was no-nonsense when it came to police work. If there was anyone who could bully information out of someone on the investigative team, it was Boyd.
I went back to stirring the warming almonds until they gave off an intoxicating, nutty scent, then I dumped them out to cool on paper towels. As I sifted the flour, checked the softening butter, and measured a judicious amount of sparkling sugar, I wondered what I would call this creation. How about Goldy’s Nuthouse Cookies? I beat the butter until it was creamy, then blended in the sugar until the mélange looked like spun gold. After stirring in the other ingredients, I rolled the mixture into logs and set them in the freezer.
I couldn’t stand it any longer: I had to see how Arch was. I crept up the stairs and listened outside the door of his bedroom, the room he had shared with Julian before Julian left for college.