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"Yep. Save us from amateurs."
"He married, have a family?"
"Jon? No." She laughed. "He's a bachelor."
Now there's a word you haven't heard for . . . about a century.
They fell silent, watching the children, who were totally lost in their seaside exploration. Maggie was holding her hand out and pointing to something, probably explaining to O'Neil's children the name of a shell she'd found.
Wes, Dance noted, was by himself, standing on a damp flat, the water easing up close to his feet in foamy lines.
And as she often did, Dance wondered if her children would be better off if she had a husband, and they had a home with a father. Well, of course they would.
Depending on the man, of course.
There was always that.
A woman's voice behind them. "Excuse me. Are those your children?"
They turned to see a tourist, to judge by the bag she held from a nearby souvenir shop.
"That's right," Dance said.
"I just wanted to say that it's so nice to see a happily married couple with such lovely children. How long have you been married?"
A millisecond pause. Dance answered, "Oh, for some time."
"Well, bless you. Stay happy." The woman joined an elderly man leaving a gift shop. She took his arm and they headed toward a large tour bus, parked nearby.
Dance and O'Neil laughed. Then she noticed a silver Lexus pull up in a nearby parking lot. As the door opened, she was aware that O'Neil had eased away from her slightly, so that their arms no longer touched.
The deputy smiled and waved to his wife as she climbed from the Lexus.
Tall, blond Anne O'Neil, wearing a leather jacket, peasant blouse, long skirt and belt of dangly metal, smiled as she approached. "Hello, honey," she said to O'Neil and hugged him, kissed his cheek. Her eyes lit on Dance. "Kathryn."
"Hi, Anne. Welcome home."
"The flight was awful. I got tied up at the gallery and didn't make it in time to check my bag. I was right on the borderline."
"I was in an interview," O'Neil told her. "Kathryn picked up Tyler and Ammie."
"Oh, thanks. Mike said you've closed the case. That one about the roadside crosses."
"A few hours ago. Lot of paperwork, but, yeah, it's done." Not wanting to talk about it any longer, Dance said, "How's the photo exhibition going?"
"Getting ready," said Anne O'Neil, whose hair brought to mind the word "lioness." "Curating's more work than taking the pictures."
"Which gallery?"
"Oh, just Gerry Mitchell's. South of Market." The tone was dismissive, but Dance guessed the gallery was well known. Whatever else, Anne never flaunted ego.
"Congratulations."
"We'll see what happens at the opening. Then there are the reviews afterward." Her sleek face grew solemn. In a low voice: "I'm sorry about your mother, Kathryn. It's all crazy. How's she holding up?"
"Pretty upset."
"It's like a circus. The newspaper stories. It made the news up there."
