Inside, the vestibule smelled of furniture polish and old Bibles. A bulky radiator clanked and hissed against the wall. It masked the words of a female speaker beyond the inner wooden double doors. I checked my watch: probably thirty minutes since the service began. I realized this entrance to the sanctuary was located too close to the pulpit. It would disrupt the speaker and draw a lot of attention if I walked in there. Better to crack open one of the doors and watch unnoticed. Hoping for oiled hinges, I pulled the handle.
Sue Mickelson was sitting on the end of the pew directly opposite, listening attentively to whomever was speaking—I still couldn’t hear much over the radiator’s hiss. A fur coat rested on Sue’s shoulders. Blonde tresses curled down around a string of pearls that ended in the décolletage of her black silk dress. She looked like a sexy Blackglama ad. It wasn’t hard to picture Hugh with Sue. But as I watched her wipe a tear from her eye with one hand, I saw her discreetly place the other on the upper thigh of the woman next to her, a reedy woman in a masculine black suit who had short, dark hair and square black glasses. Their body language had me pretty sure Hugh didn’t score with Sue.
Adjusting my angle for a better view of the nave, I had to steady myself as my eyes landed on two imposing caskets. Large ebony boxes strewn with white lilies. Hugh was inside one of them, no doubt dressed in a suit he’d never wear and pumped with formaldehyde. I felt instantly, deeply sad for him. I wouldn’t feel this grief if I’d killed him. Right?
Behind the caskets, Helene’s sister spoke from the pulpit. I recognized her from the newsclip. She looked to be in her thirties. She had multiple piercings in one ear and wore knee-high black boots and a black motorcycle jacket over a black dress that ended midthigh. Her cheeks were stained with runny mascara. A section of her thick mane of auburn hair had fallen over one eye. She kept brushing it away with the back of her hand, revealing a mass of silver bracelets on her wrist.
There was a large projection screen in back of her—only a small portion of it visible from my post. I took a chance I wouldn’t be noticed and opened the door an inch more. I could finally hear her speak.
“I guess what I’m trying to tell you is I admired my little sister. You know, she had a rough time growing up.”
As she paused to pull a tissue from her jacket pocket and blow her nose, I crouched down to get a better look at the screen behind her. It featured an oversize image of Hugh and Helene toasting toward the camera at a Masout Gallery opening. The image cross-faded into one of Hugh and Helene hugging Callie in a canoe at Pequod Point. There was another of Hugh and Helene in white robes and sunglasses, grinning as they relaxed on chaise lounges by an infinity pool. The slides were a painful reminder of how happily Hugh’s life had continued after our demise.
“Our mother isn’t here today. Probably because she was too drunk to get on a plane. We haven’t seen my father since he left when Helene was ten—that’s when my mother started drinking. I was already at college, so my sister practically had to raise herself. Maybe that’s why she grew up to be someone who had amazing drive and determination.” Her voice cracked. “‘Maggot,’ she’d say—that was my nickname—she hadn’t been able pronounce the ‘r’ in Margaret when she was little,” Margaret said, losing her composure and pausing.
Helene’s difficult background came as a surprise. I’d always assumed it was because she was spoiled—used to getting everything she wanted—that she acted without regard to the hurt she caused.
After a moment, Margaret gathered herself. “‘Maggot, you need a vision of your life,’ my little sister would say. ‘You have to see things in your mind first and then make them happen. You have to manifest.’”
On the screen, a slide of one of Hugh’s paintings—one I hadn’t seen before—faded in and stayed there. It was a kitsch homage to American Gothic featuring Hugh and Helene in overalls. Helene held a pitchfork in one hand and with the other hand was touching the bulging belly she’d manifested.
“My sister’s way of doing things didn’t endear her to a lot of people. But I can only see her as that fiercely determined little girl. And when she grew up, she was determined to have a child of her own. The one she brought into this world is incredible.”
Margaret broke down completely and collapsed into sobs. Her anguish was heartrending.
“I love Callie. And I loved my sister. I can’t do this. I can’t bury her.”
A bald man in a dark suit swooped in from the side and ushered the distraught Margaret back to the front-row pew. I didn’t recognize him at first; his hairlessness threw me off. He wasn’t bald; he’d shaved his head. His face was gaunt and the skin under his eyes bruised purple. And he’d lost a shocking amount of weight in the few days since his appearance on the news. Tobias looked like he’d just gotten out of prison. Was his guilt eating him alive? Was his shorn hair a sign of penance or grief? When he finally returned to stand behind the pulpit, he didn’t speak. He took his time surveying the crowd. Then he picked up his Bible and waved it over his head.
“You don’t have to be a murderer to be a sinner, brothers and sisters. ‘As it is written, there is none righteous, no, not one.’ Romans 3:10. We are all lowly creatures of appetite. Weak and indulgent lovers of flesh. ‘We are all as an unclean thing, and all our righteousnesses are as filthy rags’ . . . We are sinners, all of us. Subject to the wily manipulations of the devil.”
He placed the Bible back on the pulpit and stroked it before continuing.
“And what is the Devil’s nefarious purpose? To close the gates of heaven and seal us in hell.” There was a wildness in his eyes. A cruelty that was frightening. “To condemn us to everlasting torment.
“But there is a clear path to return to God’s grace. Accept the one who willingly died on the cross so that you might be cleansed. Receive Jesus as your Savior.”
He paused and bowed his shaved head.
I suddenly knew why Tobias booked this “defrocked” chapel. He wanted to play minister to another captive audience. To stand up there and feel important and righteous. He raised his head and walked away from the pulpit, placing himself between the two coffins.
“My brother and sister here?” He tapped each of the lids lightly. “They were liars. Coveters. Adulterers. Their thoughts and deeds polluted with greed and carnality.”
I could hear the crowd murmuring and rustling in discomfort at this distasteful display. I hoped Callie wasn’t hearing this. I scanned the pews in my sight line. I didn’t see her. I did find a few other distressed faces.
“They worshipped at the altar of the devil. But still, we must forgive them. They began as children of Jesus.”
With a cheap showman’s sense of drama, he leaned down and kissed the top of one coffin, then the other, before turning to the crowd again.
“Whether they returned to Him at the end, we cannot know. I pray with all my heart that they did. So they won’t suffer the torments of hell. So they can rest in the loving arms of the Lord and enjoy eternity in his glorious Kingdom.”
He put his hands together. “Pray with me. Pray for them. And for Callie, their little girl. She is not here with us today—she is far too young to absorb all this loss.”
I felt relieved for Callie. Tobias closed his eyes and stayed silent for a few moments. When he opened them, I saw the glint of pride. And power.
“Praise God. All rise.”
Clothing rustled again. Pews squeaked. I stuck my head a little further into the chapel for a quick peek at the mourners. It was only three-quarters full. I guessed the majority of Hugh and Helene’s friends lived in New York City and would attend the service there.
“‘For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.’ Forgiveness begins here. Amen.”
A chorus of mumbled “amens” rose to a crescendo and then petered out as a recording of “Precious Lord” began. Tobias gripped a casket handle and waved for the pallbearers to join him up front. I retreated into the vestibule,
closing the door. The sizzle of the radiator drowned out the hymn, but it couldn’t shut out my own chaotic thoughts. They were slamming into each other like bumper cars. I felt I would explode.
Tobias Walker was a twisted, sanctimonious prick—preaching about sin over their bodies. Using their funeral to gratify his need to aggrandize himself. Would he use their kid? Did he slaughter his own brother and sister-in-law like animals to get control of their money? Had he destroyed my life by setting me up to take the blame?
And Helene. Poor Helene. Her mother was a drunk; her father a runner. She’d been neglected, abandoned and most likely emotionally abused. Despite everything she’d taken from me, I felt sorry for her.
Wait . . . why should I feel sorry for Helene? My childhood was no picnic, either, and I didn’t go around getting myself knocked up by another woman’s husband. After shattering that woman’s life, I didn’t show up to plague her when she tried to build a new one. And look at how she burned Kelly. Kelly was about to have a goddamn baby, and it still didn’t deter that selfish witch. No. I was glad that Helene and Hugh were dead. I was grateful I’d never have to deal with either of them again. Happy they were off the planet.
God. Oh God. What’s wrong with me?
Did Tobias kill Hugh and Helene, or did I?
Wrung out, I just wanted to find Grace and go home. I opened the vestibule door again. A number of the mourners had already filed out of the chapel, following the coffins to the hearses. I slipped into the sanctuary and stood in the shadows against the wall, scouting for Grace. The white silk rose on her wide-brimmed black hat surfaced from the sea of black by the door. She was about to enter the media circus out front, and I wasn’t going to chase her there.
Sue Mickelson and her girlfriend remained in their seats, whispering to each other. They finally rose and brought up the rear of the line behind Hugh’s Latina housekeeper and her son. They were the only other people I recognized besides Grace, Tobias and his wife. Where was Abbas? Surely, he’d driven out for this. Who were the rest of these mourners? Granted, it looked as if Tobias meant what he said—“just family and a few local friends.” But not that long ago, I would have known everyone. It was as if the life Hugh and I shared for twelve years had never happened. It had been erased.
Sue Mickelson, towering in high heels, was gazing absently across the room over her girlfriend’s head when she spotted me. I saw her eyes flicker and her expression change. She leaned down and said something to her partner, who turned to look. So did the housekeeper and her son. The couple in front of them began whispering to each other, glancing furtively in my direction. Word traveled down the line. As more heads turned, my face flushed, and my vision clouded with tears. I was shaking with anger. I wanted to scream: “Did any of you people even know Hugh? He would have hated this funeral. He wasn’t religious!”
But I said nothing. I spun around and marched back through the doors and out of the vestibule to wait for Grace in the lot. On the steps I stopped short, still vibrating. Distant voices shouted—probably the press firing off questions around front.
Crawley had moved his squad car directly across the street and was watching me through the opening in the hedges. I wasn’t going to let him gawk anymore. Defiant, I charged over to my car, plunged inside and slammed the door.
Staring savagely at the side of the chapel, I cranked up the heat and switched on the radio. Scary pipe-organ music. I turned it off. In the quiet that followed, I heard a familiar voice torturing the English language.
“You are hearing me now?”
There he was. Abbas Masout rounded the corner on the path that led from the front of the chapel along its side to the parking lot. He spoke into the phone while bending and twisting his torso in search of a better connection.
“Hearing me now?”
He wore a black turtleneck under what looked like a black wool painter’s jacket topped with a black cashmere scarf. The man was elegant.
“Yes, come to memorial service at gallery tomorrow. Three o’clock. I am seeing you then.”
Of course Abbas was going to host the memorial at the gallery. That made sense.
“Sorry, another is calling. I must go. See you tomorrow.”
Abbas switched the phone to his other ear and craned his neck.
“Hello, Anina? Anina, did you get my message? I have tried to reach you. Sorry, I am in Pequod now. Yes. A small service. And Hugh’s brother wants estimation on his paintings, so I stay this afternoon.”
Tobias was already trying to determine what Hugh was worth. Outrageous. But more condemning evidence.
“Yes. Thank you, Anina. I am doing my best. How could I not? But you will come to the memorial tomorrow at the gallery? Good. Then I go to London for some weeks. We will reschedule our meeting after London.”
He leaned too far to the right and nearly lost his balance.
“Hello? Anina? Hello? Agh, shit.”
Abbas continued cursing his dropped call until he saw me through the windshield.
“Nora!”
I pressed the button and my window rolled down.
“Hi, Abbas.”
“My God, Nora.”
He came around to the driver’s side. Then he leaned in the window to look more closely at my face through the rising steam of our breath. It was good to see him.
I wondered what he thought of that brutal eulogy.
“Dear girl, you came. I didn’t see you inside.” He shook his head. “The brother. His talk was terrible, no?”
“Awful,” I agreed.
“You must come to the city tomorrow. We will do a beautiful thing at the gallery at three.”
He began to study me the way I’d seen him evaluate a work of art so many times in the past. Lips pursed. Close-set eyes narrowed and penetrating as he took measure of the painting’s effect on him. Analyzing where it fit into the marketplace and how much he could profit from it.
“You are looking stunning today. Like Cossack princess.”
“Thank you.” I couldn’t help smiling a little inside. Even at a funeral, Abbas’s chauvinism was irrepressible.
He raised an eyebrow. “I think you must have a new man.”
Ben. Our dinner was tonight, and I had so much to tell him. I hoped I’d find the nerve.
“I do.”
“I am happy for you, Nora.” He sighed. “You know my feeling. Hugh should have never let you go. He should have given you a baby. You were good for him.”
So that’s how he saw it. I guess he wasn’t keen on Helene. But what about whether Hugh was good for me?
“Thanks . . . For the record, I was the one who let him go.”
“Ah, of course. Anyway . . .” He trailed off and looked sad. He rubbed his eye. He was starting to cry. “So much history. I see you and I remember. How much time Hugh and I spent together, how much we enjoyed arguing for sport. How he loved my baba ghanoush.” He blinked, fighting back his tears.
“Three, four times a week we were talking. Three, four times a week for all those years. In my mind, I am still speaking with Hugh all the time.”
I opened my glove compartment, dug out a recycled, brown-paper napkin and gave it to Abbas. His feelings for Hugh touched me. But I was also a little envious that Abbas could mourn Hugh without ambivalence. Hugh hadn’t betrayed him.
Abbas blew his nose. “Now he is gone. And why? Who does this terrible thing?”
“I wish I knew.”
I’d had the urge to tell him that the man he was helping today was likely Hugh’s killer. But I checked it. I needed to get to those car rental calls and find some real evidence to present to the police. Wait . . . maybe Tobias had said something incriminating to Abbas?
“So, you’re going to evaluate Hugh’s paintings today? At the studio?”
He tilted his head. “Who told you this?”
“I heard you on the phone just now. Why the rush, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Abbas looked defensive. “Tobias asked for m
y help. He has financial decisions to make for the child. He is flying home this afternoon, right after burial, with his wife and the little one. He asked me to stay and take an estimate on the paintings in Hugh’s studio before I leave for London. I’ll be gone for almost a month.”
His phone buzzed and he checked the caller.
“I need to be answering this. You are coming to the cemetery now?”
“No.”
“Then you must come to memorial tomorrow, dear girl. We must talk more.” He reached in, grabbed my hand and kissed it, then put the phone to his ear. “Anina? Anina? You can hear me now?” he shouted, turning away.
He crossed the lot doing battle with his phone and finally gave up in frustration, climbing into his dark green BMW. As he backed out of his parking space, my passenger door opened. Grace slipped in beside me. I held up my hand before she could speak.
“I’m pretty sure it’s Tobias. It looks like he’s already counting the money.”
Big, shaggy flakes began falling as soon as we left the chapel. So much for the “coastal effect”; global warming messed with cold-weather patterns, too. A thick dusting already covered the lawn by the time we pulled our cars up to Grace and Mac’s house, a mid-nineteenth-century Cape on one of Pequod’s prettiest streets. Mac, Otis and Leon were out front wearing dark wool caps and toggle coats, lobbing the season’s first snowballs. The scene looked like a Currier & Ives litho—if you cropped out the Pequod Volunteer Ambulance parked by the curb for Mac to jump into at a moment’s notice.
We greeted Mac and the boys and went into the house. Behind the traditional exterior, the home’s inside was unconventional. Walls lined with dozens of flea-market paintings of flowers—roses, zinnias, sunflowers—all sorts of blooms. Colorful pillows and throws on creamy couches. Eclectic, ethnic furniture set on an assortment of vibrant Turkish rugs.
Tips for Living Page 24