Sometimes there is a eulogy, often not.
There was a eulogy for Patty Kay.
“… your servant, O Lord, who labored diligently to make this world better …”
The elderly priest quietly and lovingly recalled Patty Kay’s impact on the lives in her community. Her good works. And they were many.
It was beyond the priest’s skill to recall her gusto for life, her cocky disdain for the pretentious, her willingness to face abuse for unpopular causes.
It was odd, staring at the cross emblazoned in scarlet on the golden silk pall, how well I felt I knew a woman I’d never met.
The church pews were full. There were folding chairs set up in the narthex.
I sat with Craig. We’d exchanged only nods that morning. He came downstairs shortly before the limousine arrived. He’d avoided looking at me, hiding behind the newspaper with his coffee.
But he never turned a page of it.
We sat alone in the first black limousine.
A haunted-looking, red-eyed Brigit rode with her father and stepmother and the Guthries in the second limousine.
But despite my irritation with Craig and despite my newly kindled suspicions of him, the funeral made me glad I’d come to Fair Haven three days ago.
Because Craig would have stood alone without me. And that shouldn’t happen to anyone. As the service began, I could feel his body shrink beside me, as if a heavy weight bowed his shoulders. He gripped the unopened prayer book so tightly, his fingers blanched.
It was almost as if an invisible wall surrounded him when we entered the church. So many eyes slid away from his glance. So few hands reached out to touch him. So many quick, covert looks followed after he passed.
As we walked out of that packed church, I could count on one hand those who even acknowledged his presence. Gina Abbott. Brigit. And yes, Stuart Pierce. And the Forrest family, Brooke, her husband David and son Dan. Cheryl and Bob Kraft.
But most eyes avoided contact. Most faces turned away.
Some of it might have been awkwardness.
How do you greet a man whose wife has been violently murdered?
It isn’t the acceptable way to die. If Patty Kay had died of cancer, the handclasps would have come, the murmured condolences.
But this was murder, and Craig had been arrested for the crime.
And I wondered how many knowing looks had been exchanged in conversations across Fair Haven, how many silken whispers shared: So much younger than Patty Kay … I’ve heard he and that girl, the pretty blond one, at the store … The gun came from his car…. Always thought he looked shifty …
It was no better at the cemetery.
Craig sat stiffly beside me in the first row beneath the green funeral canopy. The bronze casket rested above the newly dug grave. The gravesite, part of the Prentiss family plots, was near the top of a hill. A sea of tombstones fell away below, sparkling in the soft April sunlight. Pine trees stood watch, sentinels to sorrow. But no observer would have noted heartbreak in the face of this widowed husband. Instead, Craig looked hunted, his eyes defensive, his shoulders hunched, his tightly clasped hands trembling.
Desmond Marino was in the front row of a semicircle of mourners facing the grave. The lawyer’s monkey-bright eyes, somber and thoughtful, remained on Craig.
Marino wasn’t the only person watching Craig. Captain Walsh stood deep in the shadow of the towering pine. His cool, dissecting eyes never left Craig’s face.
The priest’s resonant voice carried his words to us: “Almighty God, with whom do live the spirits of those who depart hence in the Lord, and with whom the souls of the faithful, after they are delivered from the burden of the flesh, are in joy and felicity …”
I looked at other now-familiar faces.
Chuck Selwyn, the headmaster, might have posed for Funeral Director, U.S.A. His black suit, bowed head, and somber face embodied decorous grief. Tonight at the trustees meeting, I intended to point out that there was nothing in Patty Kay’s school files about an aeronautics program.
Mr. Selwyn, what was the real reason for her anger with you?
I couldn’t wait.
“We give thee hearty thanks for the good examples of all those thy servants, who, having finished their course in faith, do now rest from their labors …”
Louise Pierce touched a dainty cambric handkerchief to her eyes. But her heart-shaped face was calm. I saw no tears. Her other hand gripped her husband’s arm possessively. I remembered her tone so clearly.
Stuart is my husband. Mine.
“And we beseech thee …”
Stuart Pierce seemed unaware of his wife’s touch. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back and gazed at the casket, his dark eyes empty, his face bleak.
Patty Kay and I—it was always wild and a little bit insane.
“… that we, with all those who are departed in the true faith of thy holy name …”
The Forrest family was in the center of the semicircle. It would have been a focal point for a photographer. I supposed the Forrest family always automatically assumed pride of place. David Forrest’s stern face was composed. His black pinstripe suit fit him perfectly. Of course. I would scarcely have expected less. Dan Forrest, slim and handsome in a crisp navy blazer and dark gray slacks, stood between his parents. The handsome teenager was definitely his mother’s son, her beauty transformed into a young man’s clear, resolute features. Dan stared fixedly, his eyes enormous, at the flowering rhododendron to the right of the gravesite. Death is difficult for any young person, and within the space of a day Dan Forrest had experienced both the death of a schoolmate and of a family friend. I hoped the counselors at Walden School were skilled. Brooke’s lovely face twisted in sorrow. Tears slid down her cheeks. Her husband might say she and Patty Kay were merely social equals. There was more here than that.
It’s so important to do the right thing.
“… may have our perfect consummation and bliss …”
Gina Abbott’s eyes were closed. Her bony face was drawn and frighteningly pale.
That’s the last time we talked. We yelled at each other.
Gina’s daughter Chloe clutched a prayer book. She stared at the casket with puzzled, frightened eyes.
“… both in body and soul …”
Stevie Costello’s arms were clasped tightly across her chest. She wore a boxy black suit that wasn’t especially becoming. It made her look shorter, heavier. And black turned her pale face sallow. She, too, watched Craig.
“… in thy eternal and everlasting glory …”
I almost didn’t recognize the final member of the tennis foursome. I had yet to meet her, of course, other than in Patty Kay’s videos of the tennis holiday and Brigit’s birthday. I wished I could step forward, take her arm, cry, “I understand, I understand.”
Edith Hollis looked twenty years older than the woman who had vacationed at the tennis resort. Her fair, freckled face was bloated with suffering; her chunky body—once a muscular threat on the court—sagged heavily. She clung to the arm of the man next to her. Her husband, I assumed. His face, too, bore the marks of sorrow. Balding and stocky, her husband looked my age. He was probably twenty years younger.
My heart ached, too, for their son, Walt, the dead girl’s brother, the other nice-looking redheaded kid in the snap-shots in Gina’s store. Walt’s sunken, splotchy face—so young, too young for so much pain—looked utterly dazed, lost, despairing. My Emily had grieved so long, so deeply for her little brother.
“… through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”
One final prayer.
The funeral director caught my eye and nodded.
“Craig.”
Those hunted eyes slid toward me.
“Time to go,” I murmured.
Brigit was the first of the family to reach open ground.
Friends began to move toward her.
Pamela and Willis Guthrie walked in front of me as we filed away from those seats so close to th
e grave. Craig was behind me.
“… a very nice service. I’ll have to tell Father Burke that the family is well pleased.” Pamela’s voice was just one shade short of condescending.
“Quite nice, quite nice,” Willis echoed.
Like well-rehearsed marionettes, they took their places beside Brigit and began to greet friends.
I moved to join them.
And realized Craig was standing motionless near the open grave. He looked from it to his wife’s daughter and her aunt and uncle. Uncertainty flickered in his eyes.
Brigit, struggling for composure, looked toward Craig, saw the open space around him. Her eyes widened indignantly. “Craig!” she called out.
He took a step toward her, hesitated, his eyes dark with misery.
Brigit darted to him. “Over here, Craig. We’ll say hello to everyone over here.” She grabbed his hand and tugged.
In an instant it was a family receiving line headed by Brigit and her stepfather. Then came I and Pamela and Willis.
Craig Matthews became the widower.
Not the murder suspect.
Now came the handclasps, the murmured condolences.
It was like watching a water-starved plant respond to a rain shower. Craig stood taller, his shoulders back, his handshake firm.
Brigit stood beside him, clung to his arm. I admired the determined jut of her chin. But I didn’t like the glint of satisfaction—and delicious pleasure—in her eyes.
Captain Walsh watched too.
So many kind words, so much sorrow.
I wondered how Patty Kay’s murderer felt at that moment, that moment of finality and grief.
Was the murderer among us, pretending to grieve for Patty Kay?
The mourners were walking away now and our line broke apart, Brigit reluctantly loosing her hold on Craig.
I heard Pamela’s calm voice. “… put out that lovely crystal punch bowl of Mothers. It is perfect for …”
And watched Louise Pierce stride briskly toward the cars, parked bumper to bumper on the winding gravel road.
Or perhaps the murderer was among us—and not pretending to grieve.
Pamela Guthrie, her heavy body molded into a black silk dress, might have been presiding at a spring social event, not the gathering following her sister’s funeral. Candy-striped awnings and cloth-covered tables were set up on the patio behind the Guthrie house. A long table provided a substantial buffet. Almost a hundred people milled about.
I stood with Desmond near a gazebo. The lawyer stared down at the ground and didn’t say a word.
I didn’t mind. I had people to watch.
Volatile Gina Abbott sped directly to Brigit and held her close, then took both of Craig’s hands and gave them a hard squeeze.
Cheryl Kraft shaded her eyes from the sun and listened as Brooke Forrest spoke earnestly. I’d have bet a bundle Brooke was presenting her plans for a memorial to Patty Kay.
David Forrest shook hands with Stuart Pierce. Then, in what I would guess to be a rare display of emotion, Forrest cuffed Stuart on the shoulder before he walked away.
Gina’s plump, fair daughter carried two plates of food. Chloe came shyly up behind Dan Forrest and called his name.
He turned and took the plate, said casually, ‘Thanks, Chloe.’
She stood beside him, toyed with her food, and watched him with glowing eyes. Dan ate briskly, oblivious of her scrutiny.
Ah, young love.
Better though than the hungry glances Brigit was wont to give her stepfather.
Speaking of …
Brigit clung to Craig’s arm. Proudly. And almost as possessively as her stepmother with her father.
At least Captain Walsh wasn’t here to see it.
But a small black woman in a lace-trimmed purple dress watched, her elderly face lined with worry. Jewel took a step toward Brigit and Craig, then her shoulders sagged, and she stayed where she was, alone, in the shadow of a flowering mimosa.
Cheryl Kraft’s husband stood with one arm about the shoulder of each grieving Hollis parent.
No wonder his emaciated blond wife sped him bright, sweet smiles.
Willis Guthrie smoothed his wispy ginger mustache and glanced at his watch.
I was tempted to tell Guthrie he could charge this afternoon up as a financial success. Look how much money his wife was going to inherit.
Near the swimming pool, Walt Hollis stared stubbornly at the brightly colored tiles, making no response as Chuck Selwyn spoke to him, the headmaster’s hands chopping in short emphatic gestures.
And threading in and out of those who had known Patty Kay well—and either loved or hated her—were those who had come to pay their respects. Well-dressed, articulate, charming, Fair Haven’s elite.
Yet, I knew that they’d been talking, all of them: You know, the sisters never did get along … I saw Patty Kay and Stuart in Atlanta … Somebody said Louise Pierce cut her dead … of course he married her for her money …
Pamela’s plump cheeks glowed pinkly. She moved from group to group, receiving homage.
One small group hesitated near the French windows that gave onto the patio. I recognized Amy, small, dark, anxious-eyed. Oh, of course, the employees from the bookshop. I’ll at ease, they clustered close to Stevie. The young assistant manager looked toward Brigit and Craig. Her face was shuttered.
Pamela crossed to them. “It is so nice of you to come. Very, very thoughtful. I know Patty Kay would have been pleased. Do be sure and have something to eat before you go back to the store.” it wasn’t the precise words that offended, it was her patronizing tone, her unconcealed assessment of them as social inferiors.
“Thank you, Mrs. Guthrie.” Stevie’s voice was wooden.
Beside me, Desmond abruptly growled, “Jesus, what a poisonous woman! Let’s get out of here. Okay?”
It wasn’t easy to follow Desmond’s low-slung black Ferrari. He drove too fast. We made it from Pamela’s house to Vanderbilt Plaza in Nashville in a little less than twenty minutes.
He was driving fast, but he wouldn’t be able to escape the demons that rode with him.
I pulled into the hotel parking lot right behind him.
Desmond held my arm as we entered the cool, expansive lobby.
‘The bar’s this way.’
Our shoes clicked on the sand-toned marble.
I was amused at his choice of bars. Certainly this one was refined enough for anyone’s elderly aunt.
We settled on an overstuffed couch.
Desmond looked at me. “What would you like?”
“Iced tea, please.”
Desmond looked up at the waiter. “One iced tea. One double scotch.”
Inwardly, I was chafing to be back in Fair Haven. There was still so much to learn.
But sometimes you have to answer other calls. Desmond wanted to talk. I almost told him how the headmaster was squelching Gina’s efforts to discover who drove Franci to suicide. But another look at his grieving face dissuaded me. Yes, Desmond needed to talk, but he needed more to talk about his childhood friend.
The lawyer looked down at his clasped hands. “You know about Junior Assembly, the dances for kids so they learn how to be ladies and gentlemen?”
I nodded.
“We were probably twelve, maybe thirteen. Patty Kay snuck in this tape of ‘The Colonel Bogey’s March,’ you know, da da tum tum tum tum, and she’d sent word around in whispers, and when it came on we all started marching back and forth and the ladies in charge stood there, looking at us like we’d turned into Martians and everybody got hysterical, it was so funny.”
Our drinks came.
He downed half of his and signaled for another. “Kid stuff. Maybe funny only when you’re twelve.”
Twelve … I held tightly to my glass.
A scowl twisted his forlorn-monkey face. “She shouldn’t be in a casket.” His voice was flat and cold. It held no trace now of the softness of reminiscence.
“No. She shouldn�
�t.”
Nor should Bobby. Or Franci.
“So I want to be straight with you. I spilled my guts to Walsh. I told him everything you’ve found out—and everything I know about these people. This may spell the end of my legal career in Fair Haven. But I fucking well don’t care.” A brief glance. “Sorry.”
I reached across the table, gave his hand a brief squeeze. “I’m glad. Every piece of information puts pressure on Walsh to look harder.”
“He’s looking. Believe it, he’s looking. The guy’s not stupid. And he’s scared now that maybe, just maybe, Craig didn’t do it. Walsh doesn’t want several million dollars mad at him. But every time he asks a question, he’s stepping on expensive toes.”
“That’s not going to get any easier.” I told him about Patty Kay’s late-night trip to pick up her files on Walden School. “Next morning she’s upset. And she invites the trustees to dinner. Cause and effect? I don’t know. I’ve been through those files like the Golden Girls with a list of eligible men. I can’t find anything out of order. But Patty Kay was terribly upset about something. Whatever it was, it set everything in motion, including the dinner. So what did she say?”
“I got her message on my answering tape.” He concentrated, trying to recall. “She said, ‘Desmond, I’m having dinner at my house Saturday night at seven for the Walden School trustees. It is essential that you attend.’”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
“She didn’t identify herself, didn’t call back, tell you what it was all about?”
“No.”
I sipped my tea. “Don’t you think that’s odd?”
“When Patty Kay made up her mind, she moved fast. She assumed I knew her voice. She assumed everybody’d come. And I’m sure—”
“No. I’m not talking about the dinner party. Why didn’t she contact you before the dinner to pitch her plan or campaign or whatever it was she wanted? Why was it essential? To her? Or to the school?”
He finished his second drink, gestured again to the waiter. “I don’t have any idea.”
“But she arranged a dinner. There had to be a reason. She was upset, so she must have had something serious to discuss with the trustees. Here’s a woman who’s used to running all kinds of groups. What’s the first precept of success in an organization?”
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