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“Why didn’t she just get them to donate the money to her?” Navarro asked. “Why marry them?”
“There was a lot of money at stake,” Kit said. “More than she could get them to donate. It was easy money, especially with no one to contest the will. She didn’t do it that often, but the marks she picked were very wealthy.”
“Frankie thought Benny was her next intended victim,” Sam murmured. “But he did have a family to contest any inheritance, so she just intended to rob him.”
“If Roxanne used the same drugs on the dead husbands that she used on Benny Dreyfus,” Connor said, “exhumation of their bodies won’t show anything because the drugs are gone from the body in days. A week tops. And all the husbands were cremated anyway,” he finished sadly. “At Roxanne’s request. She was thorough.”
“Joel Haley wasn’t optimistic that Roxanne could be charged for those crimes,” Kit finished. “And none of the murders happened in our jurisdiction, so we’re handing it off to the locals. We’re going to make sure she goes down for the three murders she committed here.”
Navarro looked resigned at the notion of Roxanne skating on four additional murders. “I agree. I think you’ve wrapped it up nicely. Is Joel our prosecutor?”
“He is,” Kit said. “He knows everything you do.”
“Good. Thanks for coming in this morning to summarize. I’ve got a meeting with the brass in an hour to bring them up to speed. I hope Shady Oaks can seat a large group of people. I know of at least a hundred who’ll be attending the memorial service tomorrow.”
“I think they’re going to provide chairs for the residents and Frankie’s older colleagues, like Henry Whitfield,” Sam said. “The rest might have to stand, but there should be room.”
“Are you still playing for the service?” Connor asked.
Sam’s nod was pensive. “I am. Georgia’s doing the eulogy and I’m going to play some of the expected standards, but also the song I played the day Frankie and I met. Georgia and I both agreed that he’d have appreciated that.”
“What song was it?” Navarro asked.
Sam smiled fondly. “Iron Maiden’s ‘The Number of the Beast.’ He requested a heavy metal song because all the other residents wanted Sinatra and Bing Crosby. He didn’t expect me to know how to play it.”
Navarro laughed loudly. “That’s amazing. I think you should explain before you play it, though, or everyone will think you’re insinuating that Frankie went to hell.”
“Frankie would like that, too, but I’ll make sure to explain.” Sam sighed. “I’ll be glad when this is over. It’s been hard for the residents.”
“And you,” Navarro observed. “Thank you for your help. Now I have to prepare for my meeting. Go. Get some sunshine.”
Connor didn’t have to be asked twice. “CeCe’s waiting for me.”
He was gone, leaving Kit and Sam to wander back to her desk alone.
Sam exhaled, then visibly braced himself. “So…give it to me straight, Kit. Are we still having a day on your sister’s boat, or do you plan to tell me that you can’t see me for my own good again?”
Kit grimaced, because the thought had crossed her mind. “I was going to tell you that you don’t have to go on the boat,” she admitted. “But mainly because I know you hate the water. We can go out for a meal.”
His slow smile sent shivers down her spine. “No, I want the whole day. I’ll take some Dramamine, just in case. But I want the whole day with you.”
She drew a deep, deep breath. “I’ll text you with the details after I set it up with my sister.”
He pushed a lock of hair away from her face, dropping his hand to his side after the brief touch. “It’s a date.”
They were the same words that had sent her scurrying for cover six months ago. Now…I think I’m looking forward to it. “Yes, it’s a date.”
Epilogue
Shelter Island Marina, San Diego, California
Tuesday, November 22, 4:30 p.m.
“Did you really have a good time?” Kit asked for the third time as Sam walked her down the dock where the rented sailboat that she called home was moored.
She’d felt guilty since she’d made the dare, over a week ago. It had been the most outrageous thing she’d been able to think of to counter his demand for a date should he win their bet over who’d prove Roxanne Beaton guilty first.
Sam Reeves hated the water. He’d insisted it wasn’t a phobia, but it had sure seemed like it when Kit’s sister had set sail that morning. He’d gripped the rail until his knuckles had turned white and, for a little while, his skin had developed an alarming greenish tinge. Every few minutes he’d mutter something like Deserts don’t rock. Deserts stay still.
