“I’ve met some rich kids in my time, some trust-fund babies. Not all of them are gits or greedy bastards. Some do good works, and even if some of the some do it for image or tax breaks, the results are the same.”
She considered as she munched on bacon. “Bella’s going to grow up a rich kid, but with parents like Mavis and Leonardo, she’ll never be a dick about it.”
“She won’t,” Roarke agreed. “Nor will the one they have coming along.”
She polished off the full Irish. “That’s why I’m also going to look at the parents of the rich kids.”
“The apple and the tree?”
“What about them?” she asked as she got up to dress.
“How the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“If you want an apple, you’d pick it before it fell.” She shimmied into her underwear. “Otherwise it’ll just lie there and rot.”
“Not if you pick it up. That’s why they call them windfalls.”
She frowned at him as she buttoned on her shirt. “They call apples windfalls?”
“It’s the concept of something falling at your feet, often unexpectedly.”
“Somebody tossed off a roof can fall unexpectedly at your feet. How’s that a windfall?”
He watched her pull on her pants. “We’ll clarify by something worthwhile falling at your feet.”
“The body might have a solid-gold wrist unit and pockets full of cash, so pretty worthwhile.”
“Only you,” he murmured. “And I obviously haven’t yet had enough coffee to sort this out.”
“Anyway.” She strapped on her weapon harness, which Roarke thought added another brilliant contrast to the sleek and elegant cut of the shirt and pants. “One line, a parent might still be pissed about the way their precious got spanked when Rufty came on. Second line, parents who protect fuckhead kids from fuckhead behavior often promote fuckhead adults.”
“That’s one way to look at it.”
“I’ve seen it go both ways. A good, solid, caring family produces a vicious killer. Vicious, violent people produce…” She looked over at him as she slipped into the jacket. “Cops and gazillionaires. So you could say the apple that falls from the tree might be full of worms, or it can end up making a damn good pie.”
“Which ends up, quite remarkably, making an absolute truth.”
She shrugged. “I could write a book of sayings that should actually be sayings if people didn’t keep killing each other.”
Sitting on the side of the bed, she pulled on her boots.
“Earrings,” Roarke reminded her before she could rush out and pretend she’d forgotten about them.
“Okay, okay.” She had to walk to the mirror to put them on, and wondered, as she often did, how she’d let Mavis talk her into getting holes poked in her ears.
Then she frowned at her reflection because, damn it, she could see exactly what Roarke meant. She looked competent and powerful, but not in-your-face. So when she got in somebody’s face—and she suspected she would—surprise!
Of course, if she had to get physical, which happened, she’d mess up a really good suit.
“Okay, it works.”
“It does, absolutely. It needs just one more thing,” he added as he rose to go into his own closet.
“I’m not going to wear any more glitters.” She already had the fat diamond he’d given her on a chain under her shirt—but that was sentiment. Plus the wedding ring, which was, well, sentiment and a Marriage Rule.
The earrings were enough.
But he came out not with some shiny bracelet, but a jacket—coat. Which was it? Longer than the one she wore in spring and fall, and the exact same shade of gray as the suit.
She could smell the leather before he crossed to her.
“I’ve already got a…”
Her knee-jerk protest died because, hell, she could smell the leather. He knew she had a weakness for leather.
“You don’t, but now do, have a magic topper. It’s lined and treated, as your jacket and coat are.”
A topper. Figured there’d be an actual word for it.
It wasn’t fancy—he’d have known she’d balk at fancy. Just a simple smoke-colored deal, with pockets slit into the sides, that would probably hit about mid-thigh. The dark silver buttons—not shiny—bore the same Celtic design as her wedding ring.
So he had her on all fronts. Leather, simple, sentiment.
“Come, let’s have a look.” He held it up for her arms. “The pockets are nice and deep—and reinforced. And the length gives you another option.”
With his hands on her shoulders, he turned her toward the mirror, stood behind her, studying the image. “Yes, it works quite well.”
It felt frigging amazing. Soft as butter, light as air, but strong.
“It’s great. Really great.” Turning, she caught his face in her hands, kissed him. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
She grabbed the rest of what she needed from the dresser, assigned things to various pockets. “How’s Summerset going to know which jacket thing to put back on the post in the morning?”
“Consider it more magic.”
“I guess I will.” She walked back to him, kissed him again. “That was the goodbye kiss.”
“So noted. Take care of my cop.”
“She’s got a magic topper.”
She went out, detoured to the office for her file bag, jogged down the steps, where no jacket lay over the newel post.
Magic, she thought, in the form of Roarke buzzing Summerset.
And that was pretty decent magic.
When she got to the park, the memorial area had been staged. Numerous enlarged photos of the deceased stood on simple white easels.
Abner in his doctor’s coat, in running gear, with his husband, with their family. Nothing formal, Eve noted, but warm and casual. Moments in a life.
Flowers made a riot of color in white baskets. Nothing formal there, either, or funereal. Cheerful, she’d have said.
Two tables stood under white cloths. People busily loaded food on one, drinks on the other. A number of runners, already into their morning routine, slowed, even stopped.
Eve kept her eye on them, on those who began to gather—some in running gear, some in mourning black, others in business suits.
She spotted Seldine and those she assumed were her husband, her children, with some of the family. She recognized other faces from Abner’s office.
Buses glided up. She recognized Myata, the chemistry teacher, other adults lining students up as they got out.
By the time Peabody arrived, Eve estimated nearly two hundred already gathered to pay their respects.
“Wow, I didn’t really expect there’d be so many who—” Peabody drew in a long, passionate breath. Whispered, reverently, “The topper.”
“Shut up,” Eve hissed. “Don’t pet it. I mean it.”
“Pet it? I want to lick it.”
“Do and they’ll be holding two memorials this morning.”
“It’s so—just so much so. Ooooh, and the suit! The boots! Holy crap, it’s all—”
She broke off when Eve whipped her head around.