Page 51 of Sharp Force (Kay Scarpetta #29)

Since I saw Marino last, he’s showered and shaved.

He’s in a pair of red sleep pants embroidered with tiny elves and a matching sweater that I know he didn’t pick out.

From Dorothy. Who else? I can feel the tension behind their tipsy smiles.

I suspect they’ve been squabbling while alone in the house.

“I’ve got a wonderful taco meat sauce that I concocted after raiding your freezer,” Dorothy explains as we leave the foyer. “Some of your Bolognese mixed with a jar of Mateo’s Gourmet Salsa, and it’s out of this world.”

“That’s one way to describe it,” Marino snipes.

“Ha. Ha.” She gives him a look. “Poor Pete’s just never satisfied.”

The Christmas tree in the living room is bright enough to be seen from space, and I’m startled all over again when the talking Santa starts in.

“HO! HO! HO…! MERRY CHRISTMAS…!” His eyes seem to follow us.

“Isn’t he fun?” Dorothy laughs too loudly. “Unlike some people,” she adds wickedly with a smile boding trouble.

Benton gulps Marino’s rare and expensive bourbon as we walk through the dining room. The table is covered with a papery Christmas scene from Charlie Brown, matching folded napkins by red plastic plates.

“I thought it would be nice if we don’t have to do a lot of dishes tonight,” Dorothy confides. “Although Benton’s a wonderful assistant.” She gives him another wink with her camel-like fake lashes. “I wash. He dries. I yin. He yangs. We’ve got a real rhythm. Always have.”

Dorothy’s comments are having the desired effect, Marino getting angrier. Inside the kitchen, Benton heads straight to the bottle of bourbon on the butcher block. He refills his glass with a heavy pour.

“Hey, go easy!” Marino barks. “The shit cost me an arm and a leg.”

“Much appreciated.” Benton raises his glass to him.

A skillet of my bastardized Bolognese simmers in a large copper pan. Crispy taco shells are on a baking sheet, and my sister has filled plastic cups with sour cream, shredded cheese, salsa.

It appears that she started making a salad in a big wooden bowl, and there’s nothing in it. Just chopped lettuce.

“This isn’t finished, I assume?” I ask her as Benton gulps down his second drink.

“Of course not, silly. I thought you and I would pay a little visit to your greenhouse,” Dorothy says to me. “I need to check on my cannabis plants anyway. I’ve not watered them in several days.”

“I’m assuming everything’s been quiet in the garden?” I ask her. “You haven’t heard any bizarre animal sounds while you’ve been here?”

“Loooorrrrrrd, that’s an unpleasant thought,” she says bombastically. “But everything’s been quiet as church.”

“It was when we were on the driveway,” I reply. “And I’m relieved that Fabian got the raccoon to wildlife rehab.”

“You mean Bandit. Fabian’s already named him. I watched the entire ordeal through the window,” she says. “No way I was getting close.”

“Did he think it might be rabid?” I worry.

“No. But the poor thing tangled with something. Fabian thinks it has a broken leg. So does Janet. She was watching through the cameras, of course.”

“Janet this, Janet that,” Marino snarks.

“Let’s visit the greenhouse now,” I suggest.

“In a few. But first on the agenda is I need a sommelier. I wonder where I might find one?” Dorothy purrs as she clutches Benton’s arm.

She pulls him close, his drink sloshing, and he’s increasingly uncomfortable.

“That would be you!” She kisses his cheek a little too long and enthusiastically while Marino glares. “Let’s peruse what’s in your wine cellar? I’m in the mood for something special. And the good stuff always needs to breeeeathe…!”

Benton throws back another big swallow of bourbon, and I set down my glass. One of us has to be the designated host and stay reasonably sober. It’s looking like that will be me. I know he’s out of sorts and why.

Beneath his placid surface he’s smoldering like a volcano about to spew molten rock and ash. Lucy’s snide comments about him found their mark even after all these years. Insinuations about Marino holding a torch for me haven’t helped.

“Where’s Merlin?” I hear Benton ask as he opens the door beyond the pantry, Dorothy right behind him.

“Merlin is out,” she says on her way down to the basement.

“What?” I look at Marino. “Merlin is outside? How did that happen?”

“She put his collar back on.” He retrieves his drink from a countertop.

“I wish she hadn’t.”

“Well, you know, Doc? I wish a lot of things.” Another swallow of bourbon. “I wish I hadn’t gotten you that fucking spa package. You’ll never use it and I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“I’ve warned Dorothy about the nest of owls, the raccoons, foxes and other animals.

Including the possibility of bears, which is what worries me most. They don’t necessarily stay in their dens all winter.

” I continue to fret. “Merlin shouldn’t be outside after dark.

I didn’t see him when we were driving up to the house. ”

Through the open door near the pantry, I can hear the murmur of Benton and Dorothy talking. Her laughter rings like loud windchimes, and Marino glowers in their direction.

“Merlin’s probably in Lucy’s cottage,” he grumps.

“Who fed him?”

“I think Lucy leaves out dry food for him…”

“That’s not good enough.” I tamp down my aggravation. “And I want him here with us.”

Marino isn’t listening. He works on his drink, giving the open basement door a death stare.

“Did you hear her?” he erupts. “Everything she’s doing right now is to piss me off.”

“And it seems to be working.”

“And it’s Janet’s damn fault,” he fulminates. “They’ve been talking ever since I got here. As usual, Janet started picking on Merlin, who yelled bloody murder until Dorothy put his collar back on.”

“She shouldn’t have.” I’m fast losing my patience.

“Like so many fucking things she shouldn’t fucking do!” He splashes Pappy Van Winkle into his glass.

“I’ll check on Merlin while Dorothy and I visit the greenhouse,” I decide. “Are we sure he’s not in the basement where he usually hides?”

“I’m not sure of anything anymore. I don’t know where the hell he is.” Another swallow, and Marino’s nose is turning the same shade of red as his outfit.

As I make my way down the worn stone stairs, I don’t hear Benton or Dorothy. I’m greeted by silence, and it makes no sense. My first thought is something has happened to them. My heart thumps as I wonder if an intruder has broken into the basement.

Dorothy’s been here all day, and rarely keeps the alarm on. She complains that she constantly sets it off accidentally. If she forgets her code, the police show up. I pass through the weedy smell of her pot lab. Beyond the workbench, I pick up a hammer, wishing I had my gun.