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"Thanks. Now, how about an answer? You were looking for something. Apparently, you found it. Care to share?"
"Not looking for it, smelling for it," Carson corrected. "Since the night I was shot, I've been reliving the experience, in slow motion, from soup to nuts. It just wouldn't go away, not when I was awake, not when I was asleep. And it wasn't because I was traumatized. It was because something was bugging me. Something I couldn't put my finger on. A smell. First, I thought it was just the carpet cleaner and my blood. But there was something else, something that kept nagging at me but I just couldn't place it. Each time I dozed off, I'd wake up in a drenched sweat, with the answer just out of reach. And each time I woke up, who was always by my bedside, cooing her little heart out to make the bad dream go away? Susan. Now I understand why the memory was so strong. It was in my face every day since the shooting. Literally."
He shook his head in disgust. "So much for my genius IQ and my fantastic olfactory sense. Like everyone else, I can be as dumb as a stump. I missed what was right in front of me simply because I wasn't really seeing it—or, in this case, smelling it. But last night, after you all left and I was trying to imagine Susan as the shooter, it hit me. The smell. That sickeningly sweet smell I kept remembering. It was that foamy gunk Susan uses to puff up her hair."
"Mousse?" Jeannie suggested with a hint of a grin.
"Yeah, right, mousse." He snorted. "I still don't understand why companies make that stuff with fragrance. It clashes with every perfume on the market—even C'est Moi. Lousy R&D, if you ask me. Anyway, it's no wonder I've been bugged by that memory. Susan's practically lived in my room since the shooting. I guess she saw my bedside as a kind of confessional—a place to cleanse herself of her sins. It didn't work. And the hair connection finally clicked."
"So you figured it out last night—the tie-in between the odor you remember when you were shot and Ms. Lane's foamy hair gunk." Jeannie's lips twitched as she echoed Carson's phraseology. "And just now, you were looking for proof?"
"Not proof. Just corroboration. My sense of smell is all the proof I need. But these damned tubes in my nose ruin my olfactory sense. So I wanted to get her over here, take a deep breath, and make sure. Well, I did and I am."
Jeannie gave an intrigued shake of her head. "You know something, Mr. Brooks? You're good, too. Damned good. Remind me to call your company and tell them what an asset you are."
He grinned—a worn-out, tight grin, but a grin nonetheless. "Thanks. Just for that I'll let you in on a secret. You see these two here?" He pointed at Dylan and Sabrina. "They're about to get the hell out of this hospital room and head down to Tiffany's to pick out some rings. There's going to be a wedding in the near future."
"That's great." Jeannie shook both their hands. "Congratulations."
; "Keep it under wraps for now," Carson added. "I want to make a big, splashy announcement. Who knows? Maybe it'll send the sales of C'est Moi soaring even higher."
"Hey," Sabrina said in mock protest. "Did we just become a marketing tool?"
He shrugged. "You're already prime time media buzz. Let's give the TV networks, the newspapers, and the tabloids something cheerful to yap about. Now, get going. I'll be waiting to see that sparkling baby on your finger."
"Yes, sir." Sabrina snapped off a salute. She paused, studying his face. "You're sure you're okay?"
"Positive. I'll be better when you're engaged." He arched a brow at Dylan. "Now go make an honest woman out of my daughter."
"With pleasure." Dylan chuckled, wrapped an arm around Sabrina's waist. Carson really was okay. He could tell. And that made him feel like a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. "We're out of here. See you soon."
"Yup." Carson watched them go, then settled back, feeling a surprising sense of peace, despite the pain and trauma of the past day, and the difficult recuperation that lay ahead. Somehow, everything was going to be all right. "See ya, Detective," he dismissed Whitman, letting her know he was ready to drift off.
"See ya, Mr. Brooks. You take care."
One eye opened. "Hey, Stick, are you married?"
Jeannie paused at the door. "No, why? Are you proposing?"
"Nah. You'd turn me down. I'm harder to live with than you are. What about Stone—is he single, too?"
"Nope. A great marriage, and two great kids. Why?"
"I just wanted to know how to address the invitations."
"Invitations?"
"To the wedding." A hint of a smile. "Hey, you're the reason those two incredible kids of mine are safe and able to get on with their lives. Same goes for me. The least we can do is invite you to the wedding. I promise you great food and a great time."
"Sold." Jeannie perked up at the part about the great food. As for the great time—anything was possible. Carson Brooks hung with a very eclectic crowd—corporate execs, regular Joe's, and grown-up street kids. Mix that with Beacon Hill snobs and high-fashion designers, and, hey, whether or not it was a great time, it sure as hell wouldn't be boring. "I'm sure I can speak for Frank and Linda, too. We'll all be checking our mailboxes. When's the date so we can save it?"
"That part's still up for grabs. If you want an answer, ask my kidneys."
EPILOGUE
April 2nd, 2:30 P.M.
