Ricochet

Epilogue

THE NOVEMBER DAY WAS SUNNY BUT COOL. A BREEZE RIPPLED the surface of the channel between Beaufort and Lady’s Island. It was a good day to be outdoors, but Duncan and Elise preferred getting their fresh air through the open window while they languished in bed.

They’d arrived late the previous evening. It was the first time they’d been to this house since they’d departed it separately, he with DeeDee, she alone in his car on her way to confront Savich.

The intervening four months had been turbulent. They hadn’t discussed when they might return to Lady’s Island, but they seemed to tacitly agree that they wouldn’t come back until they could celebrate the end of their ordeal, until their return marked a new beginning.

Yesterday afternoon at 4:38-Duncan had checked his wristwatch when the verdict was read-Robert Savich was found guilty of murdering Meyer Napoli.

Adams had argued for three days that Elise be disallowed to testify.

He’d spent the next four trying to discredit her testimony.

But the jurors weren’t fooled by his blustering and courtroom posturing. They believed Elise. When they retired to the jury room, no one was taking odds on Savich being acquitted.

Duncan had helped the DA’s office prepare its case, but from the sidelines. Officially he was on suspension until the end of this month. Since Elise had been integral to the case, they’d seen each other regularly, but not as often as Duncan wished.

She had steadfastly refused to move into his town house. “You’re in enough trouble as it is with the police department,” she’d said.

“I’ve already admitted to sleeping with you during an ongoing investigation. I’m taking my punishment like a man. So what difference does it make now if you’re living with me?”

“I’m the reason for your suspension. How would it look if I was living with you during it?”

“I don’t care.”

Quietly she said, “I do.”

That had ended the argument, most effectively. Because he realized it wasn’t only his disciplinary suspension she was taking into account, it was her recent widowhood.

For days following the scene in the courtroom that had ended with Cato Laird’s grisly suicide, the story had dominated the media. You couldn’t turn on a TV or pick up a newspaper without getting another account of the stunning events that took place that afternoon in superior court.

Several witnesses had seen Cato wrestle the pistol from the holster of one of the policemen escorting him from the courtroom. Each had a version of how he’d placed the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger before any of the surprised officers or horrified onlookers could stop him.

The story was repeated for weeks, told from different perspectives, but always summarizing with the same gruesome outcome.

As details of Laird’s criminal activity were disclosed, they were explored and editorialized upon. News junkies couldn’t get enough, and the media fed their voracious appetites.

Public opinion of the judge was generally one of outrage over his duplicity and the misuse of his power and position. The widow who had exposed him was regarded with sympathy and admiration.

But Elise had shied from the publicity. It wasn’t a celebrity she welcomed. Her triumph was small and simple, but meaningful to her-she was able to exhume her brother’s coffin and give it a proper burial in a decent cemetery. Chet Rollins had been no saint, but he hadn’t deserved his horrible death. Perhaps he’d found peace. Elise had.

Now, her limbs were tangled with Duncan’s in a tableau of lassitude after a night and a morning of lovemaking. He rubbed his cheek against her belly. “You need a shave,” she said drowsily.

“Later. Right now, I can’t move.”

“Hmm.” She combed her fingers through his hair, whispering, “I don’t want you to move.”

Nevertheless he nibbled his way up her torso, until he reached her mouth. The long kiss that followed was sexually evocative. When they finally pulled apart, her eyes remained closed. She murmured, “I only thought I didn’t want you to move.”

“You like that, scratchy beard and all?”

“Scratchy beard especially.”

“Then you should marry me.”

Her eyes sprang open. “I can’t.”

“You don’t have to answer right away,” he said wryly. “Give yourself some time to think about it.”

“I can’t marry you, Duncan.”

He settled himself beside her, propping his cheek on his fist. “Why not?”

“Because I love you.”

“Hmm. Well, see, usually it works the other way. If you love someone, you want to marry him.”

“I do love you.” She said it like a holy vow, a pledge.

Matching her solemnity, he said, “Then I fail to see the problem.”

“No children, for one.”

He whisked his thumb across her delicate cheekbones. “Tubal ligations can be reversed.”

“Not always successfully.”

“If not successfully, we’ll adopt kids. Or do without kids.”

“But you wouldn’t want to.”

“What I wouldn’t want is to do without you.” He laid his hand against her cheek. “You’re the one thing I must have in my life.”

“I have nothing to contribute to a partnership, especially not to one as important as a marriage.”

She had taken nothing from Cato Laird’s house, not even her personal belongings, and had actually become angry when his attorney called to give her the bad news that there was no mention of her in Cato’s will.

“As if I ever wanted to touch anything that he had owned,” she’d said as she hung up on the attorney.

Duncan would never have influenced that decision, but he was glad of it. He wouldn’t have wanted her to keep anything that had come from Cato Laird.

“I’ve been living on what little I’d saved before my marriage to Cato,” she said now, “but that will soon run out and I’ll have to find some kind of work.”

“If you could wake up tomorrow and be doing the thing you’ve always wanted to do, what would it be?”

She stared into near space for a moment. “Remember I told you that before I moved to Savannah, I was taking classes in film?”

“Movies are a passion. You practically quoted that sappy chick flick to me.”

She frowned at his terminology, but continued her thought. “Not too far from your house, there’s an old movie theater.”

“Across from Forsyth Park? It’s been there since the thirties. Hasn’t been in operation for years.”

“I was thinking it could be restored,” she said hesitantly. “Very nicely. Make it a theater for classic movies only. Giant, Lawrence of Arabia, Doctor Zhivago. Big, epic movies like that. Or film noir. Tracy and Hepburn. There’s an endless list of film festivals. It could host premieres. There could be a wine bar off the lobby, not just your ordinary concessions. It could also be rented out for special events or programs, charity fund-raisers, corporate parties, conventions. Think of the convention business it could draw.

“Remember when we were in Beaufort talking about all the movies that are filmed around here? Well, maybe if a film crew was working nearby, the director, or a couple of the actors, would come and lecture, especially if it was a fund-raising benefit. Can you imagine if an Ang Lee or Lasse Hallström…” Noticing his smile, she stopped. “What?”

“You’re right. You’ve got nothing to contribute.”

She recognized it for teasing. “You think it’s a good idea?”

“Only thing, am I gonna have to wear a tux to all those ‘events’?”

She laughed softly, but her smile faltered. “It’s just an idea. It would take a lot of money to do it the way I envision.”

“I’m not entirely without connections and resources. We’ll find investors, we’ll get the money.” He tugged a strand of her hair, which was back to its natural color and had grown out to chin length. “Any more objections to my proposal of marriage?”

“Your friends and family.”

“You don’t like them?”

“ Duncan, be serious.”

“Okay. Sorry. What about my friends and family?”

“How would they feel about your being permanently linked to me?”

“Well, you’ve inspired DeeDee to stop perming her hair and start plucking her eyebrows. Those are damn strong endorsements. My male coworkers grumble behind my back about my undeserved good fortune.”

“To be with a topless waitress.”

“To be loved by the woman who was brave enough to confront Savich alone. Believe me, none would breathe a slight against you around me. But they for sure as hell would say nothing improper about you within DeeDee’s hearing. And anybody who would isn’t my friend, so his opinion doesn’t matter to me.”

“But your parents’ opinion does. You love them. They love you.” She turned her head away from him. “I would be their worst nightmare.”

“You’re right.” He sighed. “Mom’s in a tizzy. I don’t remember her ever being this upset with me.” He placed his finger beneath her chin and turned her face toward him. “I called today and told them we’d be there for dinner tomorrow. Mom was furious because I hadn’t given her enough advance notice. She had wanted to paint the dining room before I brought you home for the first time.”

“Home?” Her eyes reflected a childlike hopefulness that pierced his heart with love. All his life, he’d taken for granted the people who had cared about him, loved him without qualification. She’d never had that kind of security. He would love her enough to make up for that deficiency. And more.

“They don’t condemn me for what I did?”

“They’re in the forgiving business,” he said with a smile. Then, turning serious, he stroked her cheek. “But what is there to forgive, Elise? What was your big sin? Savich is evil. Cato Laird was evil. Not you.”

By the time he finished speaking, tears were shimmering in her eyes. She pulled him to her, rubbing her lips against his, whispering, “I love you, Duncan. Love you with all my heart and soul. Love you. Love you.”

He gathered her beneath him and pressed into her, his smile against her lips. “I’ll take that as a yes.”