by Dee Holmes
A man wearing a black suit with a white rosebud in his lapel glided over to Molly once they were inside. “Ms. McCulloch? I’m Ezra Hopper, the director here at Fernwood,” he crooned in an unctuous tone that made Hunt clench his teeth. “I’m so sorry about your loss. Details have been arranged as you requested. And I must say the casket spray is impressive. Haven’t seen one like that since I worked in Boston.”
Molly scowled. “Yes, well, I appreciate you handling everything. Oh, this is my husband.”
“Ah, Mr. McCulloch…” Hopper ushered them forward, toward the room where the body lay in a blue-lined coffin surrounded by hundreds of flowers.
Molly hesitated, her hands trembling. Hunt slid his arm around her, bending close. “Sweetheart, I’m right here.”
“I don’t want to go over there. I don’t want to remember him like that.”
“You don’t have to. Come on, let’s stand by the door, where we can get some fresh air. The flowers are pretty strong.”
A short, heavy woman shaped like a fireplug and dressed in dull maroon polyester came up and placed her ringless hands over Molly’s. “My dear, I’m so sorry. Had no idea Vern had a sister—God rest his soul—until I read the notice in the newspaper.”
“Thank you for coming, uh…” Molly said.
“Name’s Myrtle Baker.” She peered at Hunt, her eyes the color of overcooked baked beans.
Molly said, “This is my husband.”
She said it with such ease, Hunt was amazed.
“Humph. I had one of those once. Nothin’ but grief and trouble.” Then, in an abrupt change of tone, she added, “But how nice that you have someone to comfort you in your hour of loss.”
Hunt rolled his eyes. God, she sounded like a cheap sympathy card.
“Well, my dear, Vern rented a place from me, and he was the sweetest man. Always paid his rent, never caused no trouble.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I’ll be sorting things out at his apartment once the funeral is over.”
“You take your time getting his things cleared out.”
“Thank you.”
She waited a few seconds and then, in a slightly sharpened tone, she asked, “About how long, do you think?”
“Uh…”
Hunt said, “By the weekend.”
“Good. Got a new tenant wants to move in early September. And just so you know…”She pointed toward the foot of the casket. “I sent the Rest in Peace arrangement over there by the wall. Hopper stuck it in the back, but I moved it so it could be seen. Cost me a month’s worth of lottery tickets, and I want it shown.”
“It’s lovely. Thank you.”
She strolled away and Hunt muttered, “Good God.”
Molly shuddered. “What an odd woman.”
They watched as she walked toward the door, spoke to two men standing nearby and then left.
The first hour passed. Molly was talking to a young woman who claimed Vern had purchased his aquarium at her store. Hunt stepped outside for some air. The cloying flowers had saturated his lungs. So far he’d seen nothing notably suspicious. He walked the grounds, finding an arbor of bushes a gardener had shaped. Through the arbor was-a lily pond, stone benches and babbling water over stones. The serenity was designed to be soothing, but the enclosed area felt obviously contrived to reflect quiet grief and sympathy.
He spent some time looking around and then walked back through the arbor to the main grounds. The first thing he noted was a black car he hadn’t seen before.
Scowling, he wondered if it was Solozi or one of his men sent to pay their respects. Hunt covered the distance back to the funeral home’s entrance in wide strides. But when he entered, the dimness overwhelmed him. Blinking and squeezing his eyes closed to force them to adjust, he berated himself for spending so much time outside.
Ezra Hopper appeared and Hunt snapped, “Where’s my wife?”
He gave Hunt a distasteful look. “She was over there speaking to that poor troubled child who so admired Mr. Wallace.”
“Cut the funereal pose, Hopper. I asked you a question.”
His face reddened. “Please, sir. Your behavior is very distressing. Perhaps she went into one of the prayer rooms.”
There were two of them, but Molly wasn’t in either one. Hunt opened every door that was closed, including a broom closet, and went back outside, thinking she may have gone out a side door for some air.
But she wasn’t outside, and the black car that had arrived while he was walking the grounds had just slid around a corner.
Hunt felt blindsided and stupid and furious. But more than any of those things, he felt a coiling terror.
She was gone.
CHAPTER NINE
INSIDE THE BLACK SEDAN, Molly’s panic began to build as the car picked up speed.
Just a little while ago, she’d been discussing unusual types of tropical fish and then she’d thought—stupidly—that she was just accepting some pictures from a frail old man. Molly shuddered as she recalled the past twenty minutes.
“How can I ever thank you for these pictures, Mr. Pascale,” Molly had said in an appreciative voice. She glanced through the snapshots, her heart catching at the ones of her brother with his son. Others were of Vern and his wife before they were divorced. There were also photos of Vern on a tennis court. She, too, played, and was struck by the fact that even though she and Vern had been separated for many years, they shared a love for the same sport “I didn’t know he played tennis.”
“I’m sure there are many things about your brother you’ll discover from his friends. How sad that his death came so unexpectedly.”
After Olaf Pascale had introduced himself to Molly, he’d requested a private moment. He wore a chalk-striped gray suit, white shirt and pearl gray tie. His frame was so gaunt, Molly was sure a good stiff wind would have blown him away.
“You and Vern were good friends?” she asked.
“I’d known him many years,” he said, not really answering the question. “This was an effort for me, getting these pictures to you.”
“And I appreciate it so much.” She wished she had a better light. The dimness of the room made a close study of the pictures difficult.
“I have more pictures.”
“More?”
“Yes, in my car. Some albums. There were too many to carry. I’m not as limber as I used to be. Arthritis. But if you’d care to walk outside with me, I’ll be glad to give them to you.”
“Oh, I’d love to have them.”
“And I know Vernon is happier knowing they’ll be yours.”
He took her arm, stopping her when she started for the entrance.
“No, I’m parked closer to the back. There weren’t any spaces left near the front.” He offered his arm in a courtly manner. Molly glanced around for Hunt, but evidently he hadn’t come back inside. She knew he was uncomfortable here, if only because it was a reminder of Kristin’s funeral. She looked down at her hand and the thin wedding band, knowing it represented the phoniness between them, yet part of her wanting it to be reality.
When he’d slid it on her finger, her thoughts had momentarily embraced all a wedding ring represented. Commitment, love, devotion, a true relationship between a man and a woman. But Hunt didn’t want any relationship with her, never mind a committed one. He’d made it clear he didn’t want her at all.
So why did her heart keep wanting him? Why did her thoughts keep plunging into blissful fantasies? Surely she was only suffering from infatuation or a fascination with a sexy man. Her own love life was bereft—the dating she’d done had never been very serious—so perhaps that accounted for her feelings for Hunt. If anything, she was probably falling in love with the idea of being in love.
“Is something wrong?” Olaf Pascale asked, peering at Molly.
She shook off the unwanted thoughts. “No, no. Of course not. Just let me tell my husband where I’m going.”
He gripped her arm a little too tightly, then immediately loosened
his grasp. “I need to be getting along, Molly. I’m going to be late for my appointment as it is. Surely you can come outside for a few moments without permission.”
His choice of words made her feel like a child, and her pride balked. What harm was there? As an ex-cop, Hunt was suspicious of everything and everyone. Molly understood a wariness of Myrtle, the landlady, but Mr. Pascale was a frail, old man with pictures of her brother. If on the bizarre chance he was some weird character, she’d thank him for the pictures and return to the funeral home.
“Lead the way, Mr. Pascale.” Molly tucked the photos he’d given her into her purse. They were an unexpected treasure, and with the addition of the albums she could begin to put her brother’s history together. Pictures meant friends of his she could contact, places she could go where Vern had been, and best of all, pictures of her nephew—now her only blood relative.
They crossed the lawn to an area with a few scattered cars in the distance. A black sedan waited, its paint gleaming with polish in the afternoon sun. Tinted windows gave it an air of mystery, and Molly felt the first inclination not to go any farther.
You’re being silly and melodramatic, she scolded herself. There was no one around, and once she had the albums she would thank him and leave. Hunt might be annoyed at first that she’d disappeared for a few minutes, but when she showed him the pictures, she had little doubt his irritation would turn to excitement. Then, back at the cottage, when he was poring over the photos for clues, she’d remind him that if she hadn’t spoken to Mr. Pascale, there would be no photos.
The two front car doors opened at exactly the same time. A pair of men in black suits and shoes that were as polished as the car, surrounded Molly. Their expressions were unsmiling, their eyes covered with sunglasses. Molly froze.
“What’s going on?” she asked, both frightened and angry.
“Get in the car like a good girl, Molly.”
“I certainly will not” She pulled away, but one of the men stopped her.
“Shut up and do as Mr. Pascale says.” The man had a bloated, fleshy face, his eyebrows gray-flecked and bushy above his sunglasses. His mouth ticked up at one corner, as if practicing a deadly snarl.
The other man, a cadaverous column, stood sentry, with his legs apart and his arms folded, daring her to escape.
It had all the reality of a bad TV movie, and yet there was no doubt about the back door being thrown open and the one with the salt-and-pepper eyebrows pushing her into the car.
She struggled, one foot kicking up, her shoe making contact
“Dammit!” He doubled over, his hand cupping the front of his pants. Molly took advantage of the distraction and flung herself sideways, trying to get enough footing to scramble free.
“Knock off the noise, for God’s sake,” Pascale snapped, all semblance of gentlemanly behavior gone. “You wanna bring a crowd down here? Get her into the friggin’ car.”
“I’m tryin’, Mr. Pascale.”
“Brewer! Help him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Brewer grabbed her, clamping a hand over her mouth while the other man grasped both of her ankles. Her suit skirt hiked up, and she bucked and twisted in an effort to free herself, but in the next second she was unceremoniously dumped into the back seat.
She fell against the leather, her heart clamoring, her pulse pounding and terror clutching at her. She breathed in deep, gulping pants.
“Check her purse,” Pascale snapped.
Brewer rifled through it. “Nothing here. Just female stuff and a wallet.”
“Look again. This would be. so much easier if she had it.”
Molly glared at him. “Had what?”
Her question ignored, one of the henchmen leered at her. “Maybe she’s stashed it in her panties. I can check those out.”
Pascale gave him a withering look. “Get in the front and drive. I’ll deal with Ms. McCulloch.”
Her purse was thrown at her, and she wished she could have magically turned it into a gun. All her life she’d been an advocate for gun control, but right now, trapped and fearing for her life, all her theories became empty rhetoric.
Pascale slid into the car, the door closed, and Molly felt a deep and genuine terror. She’d ignored a primary rule of life; never go somewhere with a stranger—even a seemingly harmless one. She’d not only been stupid, but not telling Hunt meant he’d have no idea where to start looking.
Once the car sped away from the funeral home, Molly was convinced Hunt would never find her. Just as she was trying to absorb that awful reality, Pascale brought her thoughts back to the present. “You could make this very easy, Molly, if you’ll just tell me what you’ve done with the notebook.”
Molly scowled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Pascale sat relaxed, as if time was of no import now that she was in the car. Then he reached out and pushed a hidden lever on the console, revealing an array of expensive decanters.
“Have some brandy. It will relax you and we can forget any unpleasantness you’re feeling.”
“Who are you?”
“A man who doesn’t like to see pretty young women roughed up. And you are very pretty indeed. Your husband—” He hesitated, as if he knew their relationship was a ruse. “He’s a very lucky man.” He poured two snifters and held one out to Molly. She didn’t move.
“You didn’t answer me. Who are you?”
“Exactly who I said, and you will ask no more questions.” Then the car stopped, the engine left to idle as the two thugs got out.
Molly looked out the window but saw only trees and bushes.
“A pity we can’t just chat casually, but this is the time for you to be giving me answers. Answers that will keep you from getting hurt.”
Molly reminded herself to think, to be cool and objective despite her growing panic. She shuddered in spite of herself. She’d gotten herself into a mess and she’d have to figure a way out by herself.
“What do you want to know?” she asked, deciding her first step was to let Pascale believe she would cooperate.
“Ah, now that’s a question I like.” Again he offered the snifter. This time she accepted it.
He smiled, relaxing a bit.
“You tricked me,” she said, not wanting to appear too willing to talk. “There are no albums, and thepictures were to distract me.”
“The pictures are yours, and to show my good faith…” He reached down and brought up an album, handing it to Molly. It was a little wider than a hardcover book, and the outer cover was solid and rough, like imitation leather. Molly clutched it. It felt like a photo album, but she knew it might be just as phony as Pascale’s demeanor.
“Now, in the world where I come from, one good turn deserves another. I’ve given you pictures of your brother, and it’s time for you to return the favor and tell me where the notebook is.”
“What notebook? I don’t know anything about a notebook.”
“You’re making this very dangerous for yourself,” he warned.
Molly felt perspiration break out beneath her clothes. Her mind raced with random thoughts of escape, but how? Physically, she didn’t have a chance against three men.
Pascale leaned back, crossed his legs and folded his hands around his nearly empty snifter. His voice bordered on the nostalgic. “I was once fond of Vernon. He did his job and he knew the rules, but a dying man can forget codes of silence and be gripped by a need to confess. What I want to know from you, Molly, is what he told you to do with the notebook.”
“He didn’t tell me anything.”
“Come, come, there’s no need to lie.”
“I’m not lying. I saw him only for a few moments. He was in intensive care and drowsy. I was worried about him and I wanted him to get better. What he did with any of his belongings was the last thing on his mind or mine.”
“Your stubbornness makes this very difficult for me.”
Something told her the real difficulty would be hers. She had
to say something. Pascale wanted information, and judging from his actions, she felt he would go to extreme means to get it. Floating in the back of her consciousness was the fact that Hunt had warned her that there could be people at the funeral who would believe she knew things about Vern. Dangerous things. But Pascale knew things, too. And more important, he wanted some notebook she knew nothing about.
A new determination raced through her. She had to get away. Hunt needed to know, and maybe, just maybe, the man her brother was supposed to kill could be warned. Then Vern’s death would in effect have saved someone else. Molly latched on to that thought. With some calculated thinking and more than a little luck, her contact with Pascale might be the break Hunt and Sean needed.
Stay cool, stay controlled; Pascale thinks you’re stubborn, not smart.
“There was one thing,” she ventured.
He leaned forward a little. “What?”
“He said he had an appointment in Boston later in the week. He was worried about not keeping it.”
Pascale swore, muttered a few things under his breath. “Did he say who he was meeting?”
“He said he was going to call and change it in case he didn’t get out of the hospital.” She lowered her head, mentally asking her brother’s forgiveness for using his death as a tool against Pascale. “Since he died, he never had a chance to change it.”
He studied her for a few minutes. “You’re a goddamn liar, Molly,” he said with an icy calm. “There’s no Boston meeting. You must think I’m a fool.”
Her heart plummeted.
Pascale leaned forward, his thin lips twitching menacingly.
Molly shrank back.
“You have two minutes to tell me where you’ve put the notebook, or Jock and Brewer will apply some extra pressure to make you talk.”
His words had lethal potency, and Molly had no recourse. She couldn’t give him information she didn’t have. She had a choice of getting beaten up or fighting back. In an odd way, Pascale’s threat tipped her over some edge between fear of what they’d do to her and the cold reality that she had nothing to lose.