by Margot Hunt
This wasn’t a fair comparison. Kat owned her business, and Amanda had a full-time nanny when she was little.
I offered the obvious explanation. “It sounds like they had an emergency.”
“How was it an emergency? The woman had presumably been pregnant for nine months. It’s not like they didn’t know what was coming. They had plenty of time to arrange for alternative childcare.”
I had opened my mouth to point out setting up a babysitter ahead of time might not have been possible. Or maybe they had made other arrangements that had fallen through. Or, just possibly, the young couple hadn’t been able to afford to pay for childcare. But Kat clearly didn’t care.
“So, what happened?” I’d asked instead.
“What do you mean? She called her son and he came and picked up the kid.”
“He left his wife when she was in labor? Did he miss the baby being born?”
“I have no idea.” Kat shrugged, losing interest in the discussion. “I think I’m going to get the Cobb salad. What are you having?”
Yes, Kat could be generous...but really, only when she wanted to be. Or when it didn’t cost her anything she wasn’t already able or willing to give up.
“Why don’t you like Kat, Dad?” This time it was Bridget piping up, and she turned back to look at us, her face concerned.
“I like her just fine,” Todd said, not sounding even the least bit convincing. Bridget obviously had the same opinion.
“Did she do something bad?” Bridget asked. “Was she mean to Mom?”
“If you’re not going to watch the movie, why don’t we turn it off?” I suggested. The kids, predictably, howled in protest and immediately affected deep interest in the movie. I glanced over at my husband and mouthed, Later.
* * *
In the end, I did go to the funeral. Todd wasn’t happy about my decision, but he insisted on accompanying me. This both surprised and touched me. I hadn’t told Todd this, but the truth was, I didn’t want to go by myself. And after my meeting with John Donnelly, I wasn’t entirely sure how welcome I would be.
Traffic was heavy on our way over to the island, and the service was just starting when Todd and I arrived. We hurriedly sat ourselves toward the back of the church just as the rector began with a call to worship. I obediently bowed my head while he prayed. Afterward the rector went on to describe Howard as a loving husband and father, a force for good in the community, complete with a list of charities he’d contributed to. He made Howard sound like a much nicer, better person than he had been, which I suppose was standard fare for a funeral. As he spoke, it was hard not to stare at the coffin positioned at the front of the congregation and think of the body within.
I gazed around the sanctuary, which was quite pretty. The church had been built in a Gothic style, complete with arches along the nave and beautiful stained glass windows. At first I didn’t see anyone I recognized, but then, when I glanced back over one shoulder, I saw Detective Demer. He was looking right back at me so that for a moment our gazes were locked. My stomach gave a nervous lurch. But then he nodded pleasantly, and I responded with a thin-lipped smile before turning away.
Kat was sitting in the front row, so I could see her only from behind. She was wearing what looked like a white suit jacket, and her dark bobbed hair gleamed. She sat between her daughter, Amanda, and her father, and occasionally she lifted a tissue to her face, presumably to dab away tears.
The reverend finished and announced that Howard’s daughter, Amanda Grant, was going to recite a poem. Amanda stood and made her way to the pulpit. She was a tall, slender young woman with a pale, serious face and straight dark hair that fell halfway down her back. Her dress was a severely cut black shift, and its simplicity suited her. I had met Amanda a few times over the years, and she’d always struck me as one of the most composed young women I had ever encountered. She was driven and studious, and certainly not one to giggle or zone out trancelike while staring down at her phone.
When Amanda took her place behind the microphone, she cleared her throat and looked out at the congregation. I was struck, as I’m sure everyone was, by the grief etched on her face.
“Howard Grant was not my biological father, but he was my father in all the ways that matter. He married my mother when I was a baby but did not adopt me officially until I was twelve. He said he wanted to wait until I was old enough to decide on my own that I wanted him to be my father legally. Since he was, and always had been, my father in my heart, this was an easy decision for me to make. I remember the day he adopted me. We went to the courthouse and stood before the judge, and I officially became Amanda Grant. I was so proud.”
Amanda faltered and looked down for a moment, collecting herself. She took a few deep breaths before continuing.
“My father wasn’t always an easy man. I’m sure most of you are aware of that. But that tough, brash businessman you all knew was not who he was with me. He was just my dad. He helped me with my math homework and never missed one of my volleyball games. He supported my dream of becoming a doctor and cheered me on whenever I became discouraged. He was always there when I needed him. Always. I loved him very much,” Amanda said. “I’m now going to read a poem called ‘Song: When I Am Dead,’ written by Christina Rossetti.”
She unfolded a piece of paper and smoothed it out on the pulpit, then began to read in a clear and steady voice:
“When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
“I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.”
The congregation was absolutely silent as she recited the poem. I was sure they were all struck by the beauty of the words along with Amanda’s extraordinary self-possession.
For my part, I was simply stunned. I realized I had never seen Amanda and Howard together. Amanda was rarely home from school. The few times I had met her had been in passing. I’d have stopped by Kat’s house or K-Gallery just as Amanda was leaving. Howard wasn’t present on any of those occasions.
But one thing was suddenly very clear—Kat had deceived me about the nature of Howard and Amanda’s relationship. She had repeatedly told me that they were not close, that Amanda would not have minded if she and Howard had divorced. According to Kat, Amanda had even on occasion asked her why she continued to stay married to such an unpleasant man. But now, sitting here, watching this composed young woman speak about Howard, it was clear there was nothing false about Amanda’s grief. Her beloved father had died and her heart was broken.
Amanda returned to her seat, and after that, the service dragged. Howard was eulogized first by his business partner, then by Kat’s brother, Josh. It seemed obvious to me that neither had liked him very much, as both speakers overcompensated by wildly praising his life and character. The reverend offered another prayer. Kat had foregone the modern tradition of playing a montage of photos of Howard accompanied by a sappy ballad, so we were spared that.
But I would have had a hard time concentrating no matter how short the service was. I was too distracted by one alarming thought:
If Kat had lied about the nature of Howard’s relationship with Amanda, what else had she lied to me about?
20
At the end of the service, the pallbearers lifted the coffin off the fabric-draped dais and carried it out of the church on their shoulders. The family sto
od and, led by Kat and Amanda, followed the coffin down the aisle. Her arm linked through her daughter’s, Kat looked wan, her normal vivacity drained away. She was wearing a tailored white pantsuit over a black silk blouse that I hadn’t seen before. I wondered if she’d bought it for the occasion. As Kat approached the pew where Todd and I were sitting, I tried to catch her eye. But she either didn’t see me or didn’t want to acknowledge that she had.
Kat’s mother and father, Eleanor and Thomas Wyeth, followed their daughter and granddaughter. Thomas was somber but pleasant, shaking hands with people as he passed. Eleanor looked austere, and other than the occasional gracious nod for a favored few, she kept her chin high and her eyes fixed straight ahead.
“What’s next?” Todd murmured. “Is there a reception after?”
“I don’t know. They didn’t make an announcement. Maybe it’s by invitation only.” I nodded toward the line forming to exit the church. “It looks like they’re having a receiving line. I’ll ask Kat.”
My pulse quickened at the thought that I’d finally get a chance to talk to Kat, if only for a moment. It was obviously not the time or place for an in-depth conversation, but at least I’d be able to get some sort of read on what was happening.
“Mrs. Campbell, how nice to see you again.”
I turned and saw John Donnelly standing there. He looked especially dapper in a dark gray suit and pale yellow tie. He held out his hand and I shook it.
“Mr. Donnelly, this is my husband, Todd,” I said. Then, turning to Todd, I explained, “Mr. Donnelly is the attorney who helped me out the other day.”
I hadn’t told Todd that the attorney had offered me what was, for all intents and purposes, a bribe if I agreed not to further cooperate with the police investigation. Todd was already worried about the entire situation. I didn’t want to add to his anxiety.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Donnelly said cheerfully, shaking hands with Todd. “I thought the service was very well done. For a funeral, that is. Despite my line of work, I’m not a big fan.”
“I don’t know that anyone is,” I remarked.
“You never met my aunt Tilly,” Donnelly said, sticking his hands in his pockets. “She was a true aficionado. Never missed a funeral in the neighborhood if she could help it. She loved nothing more than coming back and telling anyone who would listen that the priest was a windbag or that the widow had chintzed out on the coffin.”
“She sounds like a pistol,” Todd said.
“Yes, well, you didn’t have to spend Thanksgiving with her,” Donnelly quipped.
Todd and I laughed politely, and Todd said, “It was nice to meet you.”
But before we could turn and join the receiving line, the attorney stopped us. “Why don’t you leave this way?”
“Excuse me?” I asked.
Donnelly gestured toward a side door at the back of the church, which had an exit sign hanging over it. “This way out is faster. You’ll skip right by the crowd.”
I glanced at Todd. He looked confused.
“Thank you, but we’d like to give our condolences to Kat and her family,” I said, not sure why I had to explain this.
“Let me put it this way—the family would prefer it if you left through the side door.” Donnelly shrugged and spread out his hands. “Don’t make me be the bad guy here.”
“Bad guy? What’s he talking about?” Todd asked me.
Without taking my eyes off the lawyer, I replied, “I believe what Mr. Donnelly is saying is that Kat, or more likely her father, doesn’t want us to go through the receiving line.”
“Why?” Todd asked.
“Care to answer that, Mr. Donnelly?”
“I don’t want to make a scene,” the lawyer said.
“Neither do we,” Todd retorted.
I glanced in the direction Detective Demer had been sitting during the service, hoping that he had already left. He hadn’t. Instead he was standing, watching us. When he caught my eye, he raised his eyebrows. I felt a twinge of unease. I didn’t know what was going on, but I was pretty sure it wouldn’t benefit any of us to have the detective involved.
“Hello, Alice.” Thomas Wyeth had appeared behind his lawyer, looking as genial and good-natured as he had been the night of the Christmas party. Mr. Wyeth was wearing a navy blue suit, but the jacket was open and his hands were stuck jauntily in his pants pockets.
“I was just telling Mr. and Mrs. Campbell that it might be easier for them if they left through the side door,” Donnelly explained.
“Ah. Why don’t I take it from here? I just saw Marilee. She was looking for you,” Mr. Wyeth said.
John Donnelly affected a look of pretend horror. “My wife,” he said, turning back to Todd and me. “I better go join her before she gets it into her mind to become the third ex–Mrs. Donnelly. That’s something I certainly can’t afford.”
Donnelly turned and left through the same door he had been urging Todd and me to sneak out. Mr. Wyeth watched his attorney leave, then turned back to look at me. I tensed, feeling a bit like my namesake when she fell through the rabbit hole. I braced for whatever was coming next. I didn’t know if I should expect outright hostility or more of this polite weirdness.
Thomas Wyeth’s expression was benign. He smiled and looked at Todd.
“May I borrow your wife for a moment, Mr. Campbell?” Mr. Wyeth asked.
“Please, call me Todd.”
“All right, then, Todd. Would you mind? I’d just like to speak to Alice privately for a few minutes. This is a difficult time for our family. I think it would help Kat tremendously if Alice would hear me out.”
Todd glanced at me worriedly, but I nodded at him. I had no idea what Kat’s father wanted, but I was a firm believer in getting as much information as possible. Even though I knew that Mr. Wyeth was playing on my loyalty to Kat, he was smart to do so. I did want to help Kat, even if I still didn’t know what was going on or why she wasn’t speaking to me. She was my friend, my best friend, no matter what had happened over the past week. Even if she had lied to me about her daughter’s relationship with Howard. And anyway, maybe it hadn’t been an intentional lie. Maybe it had been wishful thinking, a hope that their inevitable divorce wouldn’t negatively affect her daughter. But whatever the truth was, I certainly didn’t want to cause Kat any distress on the day she buried her husband.
“It’s fine,” I said, laying a placating hand on my husband’s arm. “I’ll meet you out front.”
“You really want me to go out the side door?” Todd asked incredulously.
I glanced at Mr. Wyeth, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod accompanied by a slight shrug of his shoulders. It’s for the best, he seemed to be saying. It occurred to me that Thomas Wyeth must be in his seventies, although despite the white hair and weathered face, he certainly didn’t seem that old. He had a youthful vitality about him.
“I’ll be right out,” I promised. Todd nodded reluctantly, but he turned and exited through the same door John Donnelly had used a few minutes earlier.
“Shall we?” Mr. Wyeth asked. “The courtyard is beautiful. There’s a koi pond.”
I followed him across the nave, to a door on the far side that led out to the church’s courtyard. Mr. Wyeth was right. The church’s gardens were lovely. The koi pond was actually a long rectangular tiled pool, anchored on one end by a fountain and surrounded by walls of geometrically cut shrubbery. A grassy bridge arched over it, creating both a decorative touch and a footpath. As we drew closer, the koi swarmed toward us.
“Aren’t they something?” Mr. Wyeth said. “I think they’re hoping we’ve come to feed them. Do you have any idea what they eat?”
“No,” I said. “My daughter had a goldfish once, but she just fed it fish food we got at the pet store. It was a lot smaller than these fish.”
Mr. Wyeth chuckled. “I imagine it w
as. Do you think they’re related? Are koi just goldfish on steroids?”
“I think it might be a little more complicated than that.”
“Most things are.” Mr. Wyeth smiled. “I thought the service was quite nice.”
I nodded. “The poem Amanda recited was beautiful.”
“She picked that out on her own. That girl is something. I love all my grandchildren and I’m proud of every last one of them. But Amanda has always been special.”
“She’s an impressive young woman.”
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I wanted to speak with you.”
I nodded and waited. He glanced around as though wanting to make sure we were alone. Other than the fish, we were.
“I think it’s best if you and Kat don’t communicate. At least for a while,” Mr. Wyeth said.
His tone was mild, but his words were chilling. I finally had confirmation, if I needed it, that Kat was actively avoiding me.
“May I ask why?”
“It’s a difficult time for Kat, as I’m sure you can imagine. Howard’s death was sudden, and now the police have gotten it into their heads that it wasn’t an accident. On top of everything else Kat has had to deal with, the police keep asking her all kinds of invasive and upsetting questions.” Mr. Wyeth shook his head as if he thought the police’s investigation was in bad taste. “Everyone knows Howard had a problem with the bottle. He obviously had too much to drink that night and fell off his balcony. Instead of just accepting that, they want to turn this into some sordid crime. They’re probably hoping that it will make them famous, that they’ll end up being interviewed on the Today show.”
“Mr. Wyeth, I understand this has been a difficult time for Kat. But I don’t understand what that has to do with me or why you don’t want me to speak with her.”
“I believe the police consider Kat a suspect in Howard’s death.”
“She was out of the country,” I pointed out needlessly. “As far as alibis go, that’s about as foolproof as it gets.”