She supposed she should have anticipated a large turnout; Belleville was a small town. Not much happened here. Her step faltered for a second time as she saw Drake Devlin just coming out of the funeral home. The collar of his tan leather coat was drawn up, and Katie thought quite objectively how attractive he was—right down to the smattering of freckles. There was even a hint of a cleft in his prominent chin. Many women would find it easy to fall in love with Drake Devlin.
He hadn’t seen her right away. Now he stood stock-still on the step above her, his gray eyes locked with hers. Katie wasn’t sure what she saw there.
Seeing the exchange between them, Jonathan’s hand dropped from Katie’s arm. As he stepped to one side, Drake, like a freeze-frame come to life, stepped down and embraced Katie. “I’m so sorry. I know he was a good friend. You’ve spoken of him often. I—uh, just came by to pay my respects. And to offer my condolences. He must have been a very special person for you to care about him, Katie.”
“Yes, he was.” Katie’s eyes brimmed with tears, guilt now blending with her grief. Drake was being so kind, so generous, much more than she deserved. She’d been less than fair with him. As she moved out of his embrace, she saw him glance at Jonathan, who was looking strangely uncomfortable, as if his collar was too tight. She’d never seen Jonathan looking ill at ease before. It puzzled her.
She introduced them.
“Katherine tells me you’re a farmer,” Jonathan said warmly, but the warmth was forced. He’d taken an instant dislike to the man. Jealousy, he admonished himself. “What—uh, do you farm?”
Drake eyed him coldly. “A few vegetables—wheat, mainly. Why?
You interested in agriculture, Shea?”
“As a matter of fact…” Catching the plea in Katherine’s eyes,
Jonathan flushed, appalled at his behavior. What the hell possessed him to stand here on the steps of a funeral parlor making small talk with Drake Devlin? “I’ll meet you inside,” he said to Katie, then lied,
“Good to meet you, Devlin.”
When he was gone, Drake said sheepishly, “I guess I’m not a very good sport. I don’t like losing.”
Katie saw the hurt in his eyes and knew she’d put it there. Leaving a scribbled note in the case for Drake had been shabby treatment.
She should have faced him with what she had to say. It was fitting she should have to deal with it here—today.
Acutely aware that they were being observed, Katie tried to ignore it. “There was nothing to lose. You and I were never more than friends, Drake.”
“Through no fault of mine.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I—I’m just glad—well, he seems like a nice guy.” He gestured with his chin to the door where Jonathan had entered.
“Yes, he is.” Let Drake think what he would. If his assessment of
Jonathan’s intentions toward her were less than accurate, it at least made things simpler. She asked about Drake’s father, partly to change the subject, but too, because she realized she genuinely cared.
Drake’s eyes lowered. He shifted his feet. “He suffered another stroke, Katie. He’s been in a coma. Doctors—don’t think he’ll come out of this one.”
“Oh, Drake, I’m so sorry,” she said, her hand reaching out instinctively to touch his arm. “He’s in the hospital, then.”
“He was. I brought him home. It’s where he’d want to be when…” His voice wavered. “A volunteer nurse is with him today.”
He’d gone to the trouble of getting a nurse in then, because Jason had been her friend. Impulsively, Katie kissed his cheek. “I know how hard this must be for you, Drake. I know how much your father means to you.”
He smiled thinly. “Can’t win ‘em all. Shea’s a lucky man. But I do hope you and I can remain friends. I’ve felt like such a damn fool for lying to you about where I purchased those gifts. It was unforgivable.
I—I have no excuse to offer except that I wanted you to have them.”
“I know. And it’s not unforgivable at all. It’s very sweet. And thank you for still wanting to be my friend, Drake.”
Jonathan was standing in the lobby alongside a giant fern waiting for her, looking awkward. She crossed the silent ash-rose carpeting and took his arm. “Seemed like an odd time for a discussion on farming.”
“Dumb conversation is not beneath me,” he said, and was rewarded with a small smile. She looks so tired, he thought. So terribly tired. Makeup hadn’t successfully hidden the dark circles, like bruises beneath her eyes. “It’s over between you two, isn’t it?” he whispered, knowing it was hardly the time or place, but unable to help himself.
“There was never anything to be over. I went out to dinner with him once, that’s all.” Silly games, false pride had no place within these grim walls, Katie thought, trying to tune out the strains of Faith of our Fathers that drifted to her from the sound system.
Letting out a shuddery breath, she raised her eyes to the wall directory. Beneath today’s date, November 4th, was the name of a woman she didn’t know. Beneath that, she read: JASON BELDING—PARLOR 3. Seeing his name up there hit her like a shock wave, stripping away all her protection, leaving her naked to the reality of her friend’s body lying only a few yards from her. This was not one of her dreams—or some little drama to be ended when the curtain fell and all the players went home. Jason wasn’t going home—not ever.
She moved slowly ahead of Jonathan. Parlors branched off on either side of the corridor. Parlor 3 was on her left. As she came nearer, the smell of flowers grew stronger, sickly-sweet, almost overwhelming.
She was afraid she was going to be ill. After a few seconds, the feeling passed. And then she was at the threshold. Not daring to pause, knowing that if she did she might never go in there, she stepped into the room. The casket stood in full view. Katie swooned.
Jonathan caught her. “Are you all right? Maybe you should sit down for a minute?” Whispers rose up around her. The faces that turned to look at her were the faces of strangers.
Katie gathered herself to go on. “I’m fine,” she said, stepping further into the room, moving down the aisle between the rows of occupied chairs toward the front, grateful for the slight pressure of Jonathan’s hand at the small of her back.
She sensed Peter even before she saw him. He was sitting in the front row, flanked by empty chairs. He sat ramrod straight, hands folded in his lap. He did not look up when she passed. Katie did not think he was aware of her, nor, from the distant look in his eyes, of anyone else in the room. She longed to go to him, to reach out with some word of comfort, but she knew as she had when he was at her house, that there was no such convenient word, and to try would be an unforgivable intrusion into his private grief.
She looked away, and a moment later heard herself saying in a small voice, “It doesn’t look like Jason.” Why did they always put that awful orangey makeup on people? As if with a will of its own, Katie’s hand went out to touch the crisp hair. “Jason would have hated his hair this way,” she said, more to herself than to him. “He always wore it so—uncombed.” She gave a small laugh that quickly became a sob.
Jonathan pressed a handkerchief into her hand and she dabbed impatiently at her eyes. She would not make a public spectacle of herself. Dammit, she would not!
Regaining a surface composure, Katie felt a need to share her memory of Jason with Jonathan. “He created so many beautiful paintings,” she whispered, gazing down at the hands that, once so talented, so graceful in their movements, were now folded and still in death. “He was…” Katie gasped suddenly, felt the blood drain from her.
Jonathan laid a concerned hand on her shoulder. “Katherine, what…?”
“Look.”
The way in which she uttered that one word sent a chill through him. His eyes followed hers. He saw what had made her gasp, what had made her already pale skin paler still. His own hand unsteady, he reached into the coffin and, with some difficulty with his conscience,
extracted the photograph from the stiff, lifeless fingers.
“Get me out of here, please, Jonathan.”
***
Rose Nickerson stood in the middle of the attic room surveying it as if for the first time. She’d known the instant she woke, from the tremendous relief she’d felt, that he was gone. He’d left the house while she slept, while it was still dark outside. Despite the jolt of fear he’d given her as he fondled that nasty looking knife and spoke so chillingly to her of hunting, he had not made any move to harm her, and in fact grew quite genial, returning the knife to his jacket pocket.
She had not expected getting rid of him to be so easy. His things had been cleaned out. The cot was made up neatly, the army blanket folded at the foot. Yet there was something of him still in the room, some coldness that Rose could not understand, nor quite describe. But perhaps she was imagining things. Noticing the wall calendar, the fifth of November encircled in red pen, she crossed the room for a closer look. Wondering briefly at the significance of that, she then shrugged and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. She would not be so quick about bringing a stranger into her home again.
Downstairs in the kitchen, she opened a can of Puss & Boots and was mildly surprised when the buzz of the electric can opener did not bring Tiger padding into the room as it usually did. She filled his plastic dish, then donned Harvey’s old plaid jacket, long since robbed of its beloved, familiar smell of pipe tobacco and of Harvey, pulled on her boots, and left by the back door.
What a lovely day it was. Crisp and cold, but sunny, the sky a perfect, unbroken blue. She would do up those bags of treats and take them down to the Martin children as she had promised herself. The walk would do her good. She greeted a blue jay perched in the apple tree. He squawked at her and flew away.
Feeling at peace with herself and the universe, Rose made her way down the snowy path to the mailbox. “Tiger?” she called out. “Where are you, you naughty boy?” It was not like Tiger not to come home all night, not since she’d had him neutered, and certainly not for a good many years. In old age, he’d long ago given up his nightly prowling for the comforts of home and hearth. She called out to him again, half-expecting to hear his meowed response, to see his fat colorful self-emerging guiltily from the tall grass where the lawn ended. Maybe he was having himself a late mid-life crisis, she thought, and chuckled to herself at her own absurdity.
The mailbox was crooked on the pole, had been for as long as she could remember, the front end tilting slightly toward the ground. He ’d promised to fix it, but never did. Rose pulled the metal door open, raised her hand, about to reach inside for the mail. The half-smile froze on her face and a loud ringing began in her ears as she stumbled backward to avoid the furry, orange head that came tumbling out of the mailbox to land on the ground at her feet.
***
They were in the front seat of Jonathan’s silver New Yorker out in the parking lot. Katie was trying to stop trembling. “I sent that picture to Todd when he was in Vietnam,” she said, searching Jonathan’s eyes for some logical explanation there. “How could…?”
“I don’t know. I wish I did. But I am sure of one thing—there’s nothing supernatural about it. Someone very much alive put this photograph in…” He let the sentence trail off. Katie could see he was nearly as shaken as she.
“The police will want this,” he said, carefully placing the photo on a square of tissue from the box in the glove compartment. “There could be prints. Unfortunately, ours will be among them. I expect they’ll also confiscate the guest book.”
“Do you really think the strawman would sign his name?”
“It’s a possibility. Ego can be a friend—but it can also be a formidable enemy. It’s tripped up more than one criminal.” He was staring at the photograph of her, his expression unreadable.
“What do you think it means, Jonathan?”
“It could be—symbolic,” he said, not meeting her eyes.
“Symbolic?” A cold hand clutched her heart.
“Someone with a deranged mind might think of this picture as being you. He’s burying you with Jason.”
“Or plans to,” she said dully.
For a few seconds neither of them spoke, then Katie said tentatively, “Do you think—Todd…?” The question had been nagging at her subconscious from the beginning. Now, finally, she had allowed it to surface, had given it voice. She hadn’t needed to complete the sentence.
“No, I don’t,” Jonathan replied too quickly, as if he’d been half-expecting the question all along. “I admit,” he said, “that the possibility did occur to me when…”
“When you saw that strawman in my room,” she finished for him.
“Okay, it’s true. But Todd Raynes is not alive, Katherine. The army is certain of that. He died in the war.”
She gave a short bitter laugh. “How can they be so certain? His body was never found. Maybe something happened to him in the war—something far worse than death—something with his mind.
Maybe…” The tears came unexpectedly, born of nerves, grief and frustration. She seemed to have no inner resources left. “I sent that picture to Todd, Jonathan,” she said, sobbing now. “It doesn’t make any sense that…” She drew herself together abruptly, wiping her eyes on a Kleenex provided by Jonathan. After a pause, she said, “I’d like to see the photograph again, please.”
He passed it to her on the square of tissue as if it might be the crown jewels. He watched her intently.
The young woman wearing shorts and a halter top, with shoulder-length hair blowing carelessly in the wind and her eyes shining with all the optimism of youth, smiled out at Katie. In the background was their old house, small and box-like, the picket fence in front. Who had taken the picture? Her mother, maybe? No face came to mind. But she did remember the day, the way it had smelled of sunshine and lilacs and summer rain. Another lifetime. A different person.
“I hardly recognize myself.” She handed back the photograph.
Accepting it, he said softly, “You’ve grown even lovelier. Where was this taken?”
“My hometown—Lennoxville.” Taking little note of the compliment he’d paid her, she said wearily, “When will it end,
Jonathan? When I’m on display, too?”
Taking her hands in his own, he looked steadily into her eyes. “I promise you, Katherine,” he said, “no harm is going to come to you.
You must believe that.”
“Why? Why must I believe that when the truth is neither you nor the police are one step closer to solving this case than you were in the beginning?”
His eyes dropped from her hers, his hands falling away. He looks exhausted. As tired as I feel. The lines in his face, especially those bracketing his mouth seemed to have deepened even since yesterday.
She wasn’t being fair. He was doing his best. She supposed everyone was. “I’m sorry, Jonathan. I’m just so…The truth is, I don’t know what I would have done without you here today.”
“You would have managed,” he said.
Back inside, Katie signed the guest book, then checked the signatures above her own. Only one was familiar—the first one—Peter Machum’s. Katie read down the page opposite: Clayton Jackson, Anne Jackson, Raymond Losier, Drake Devlin and printed at the bottom of the page in large, child-like letters that took up two full spaces, Joey Smith. It both touched and surprised her to see Joey’s name there. It was for her, of course, that he had come. Knowing that, and recalling her cruel verbal attack on Joey, she felt doubly bad.
“Joey used to ask me every day if I was still his `gurfriend’,” she said in a hushed voice, using Joey’s own pronunciation, as she stepped aside to allow Jonathan to add his own name in the guest book, beneath hers. As she had, Jonathan scanned the names. He stopped to give her an odd look. “Joey—Joey Smith from The Coffee Shop? ”
“Yes.”
“You never mentioned that.”
“I didn’t think it was important.”
He contemplated her answer, then turned to give Joey’s signature a harder look, and Katie was suddenly remembering again that Joey often drove The Coffee Shop van. “Don’t keep it out half the day,”
Mrs. Cameron had yelled at him. Was it possible…the police hadn’t been able to make anything solid of the tire tracks down by the lake except to say that they appeared to have been made by a half-ton.
Might they also have been made by a van?
Katie called up Joey’s face in her imagination, and for the first time his smile took on a sinister cast. Perhaps his seemingly innocent daily question was not so innocent after all. She knew the same thought had occurred to Jonathan. Perhaps there was an underlying…
But what about the photograph? There was no way on earth Joey could have come upon that photograph.
***
The grave site was located near the top of the hill, and the paved drive was carpeted with bright fallen leaves, damp and slippery from last night’s snow. They skittered among the rows of tombstones. It was windy here, so high up.
Katie found herself studying the many faces, some familiar, some not, for the one that would stand out among the others, one that would not be able to hide its evil in these solemn, holy proceedings. But she saw no such person. She glanced discreetly about for Peter, but didn’t spot him in the crowd. The line of cars snaked back a quarter of a mile.
Is the strawman here? she wondered. Is he watching now, deriving some sick pleasure…?
“… Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil; for thou art with me…” The minister, a young, blond man in black robes that fluttered in the breeze, began to speak, thumbs held firmly down on the rattling pages, blue sky, soft billowy clouds behind and above him. Katie bowed her head. She let the words enter her mind, and repeat themselves in her heart.
The service was mercifully brief, and but for one, terrible, gut-wrenching moment as Jason was being lowered into the ground, when she could not help thinking how her dear friend would have feared the dark and the cold, Katie managed to hold herself together. Feeling her legs weak under her, she gratefully accepted Jonathan’s assistance back to his car. They would return to the parking lot tomorrow for hers, he said. She gave no argument.
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