by Maddie Day
Henderson sighed. “Yes, I’m aware of the service. Was there anything else?”
I said there wasn’t. Of course she would know of the service. It was her job to keep track of things like that. After the call went dead, I texted Phil again.
Police know about tracker. Please don’t hack.
There. I’d done my due diligence. I hadn’t withheld potential evidence. I’d helped the police without getting into trouble myself. I hoped Phil would pay attention to my messages. I hoped he hadn’t already started hacking. Most of all, I hoped the tracker would either clear or convict Chase Broward.
I made sure Birdy’s food and water were in good shape and played with him as I munched a quick cheese sandwich. He ignored the few cat toys I’d purchased, preferring to chase a tinfoil ball. My gaze fell on my puzzle, which I’d left on the kitchen table yesterday. Had I learned anything new I could add? Actually, yes. The tracker Gail had attached to Chase’s car. And Isaac’s PTSD. I used the T in GUILTY to write PTSD going down. I added GAIL at the bottom of ALIBI and hung GPS off the G of GAIL.
But adding items to my crossword wasn’t doing anything to actually solve the real puzzle. I might as well give up.
Chapter Thirty-six
Abe and I stood at Glen’s front door at a couple of minutes past three listening to the doorbell chime within. I held a container of Asian noodles and a small sack filled with brownies. After their daughter had been murdered last fall, I’d also brought Glen and Sue comfort food. That time it had been a meatloaf and a pan of scalloped potatoes. Soba noodles wasn’t exactly a traditional dish to bring a bereaved person around here, but I hadn’t had time to whip up a casserole, or a covered dish, as most called it. And this time, sadly, the food was for Glen only.
I glanced at Abe. “I called earlier and he said he’d be here. Maybe he’s not?”
“He could have had an emergency at one of his stores, I suppose.” Abe pressed the bell again.
I thought I heard footsteps. A moment later the lock snicked and Glen pulled the door open. His lips were pressed flat and he frowned as if irritated. Once he saw who we were his eyebrows raised.
“We wanted to convey our sympathies, Glen.”
“I’m really sorry for your loss,” Abe added.
I proffered the container and the bag. “I brought you some food.”
He shook his head slightly. “Thank you, Robbie. Afternoon, O’Neill.” Glen’s shirttails hung out and his feet were bare. His normally neat hair stuck up like he’d been sleeping. He extended his hands to receive the food.
“Are you doing all right?” I asked.
“Do I look like I’m doing all right?” he snapped.
Abe slid his hand into mine and squeezed. “It can’t be easy, losing your wife.”
Glen exhaled through his nostrils. “It’s hell, that’s what it is. The lady detective won’t leave me alone, either. Keeps asking me questions about yesterday morning.”
“What kinds of questions?” I tilted my head.
“Did I see Susie leave the house? Had we been arguing lately? Where are the keys to her car, and on and on. I keep telling her, how could I have seen my wife leave the house when I was out back playing my guitar? It’s the one thing that keeps me sane when things are going badly elsewhere.”
“I know what you mean, man,” Abe said. “I feel the same about my banjo.”
Huh. When things were going badly elsewhere. Was Glen’s business failing? Or was he referring to his marriage?
“And of course her car keys are on the hook inside the door where we always keep them,” Glen added.
“I wonder why she asked if you’d been arguing,” I chimed in. “I’ve always thought you two were the model of a couple in harmony.”
Glen’s gaze shifted to a point over my shoulder. “Of course we hadn’t been fighting. No more than the usual couple’s spats, anyway.”
I glanced over at the driveway. Sue’s little two-toned Mini Cooper sat in front of the garage with the sun glinting off the windshield. I pictured a map showing where we were and where her body was found. Glen’s house was in a newish development of ranch houses and split-levels on the other side of town from my store. And Scarce O’ Fat Ridge Road was out the other direction from my store, way too far from here for an early morning walk. Someone had to have given Sue a ride, and she had to have known the person if she was killed there. But if she was dead before she arrived at her final destination, she could have conceivably been killed in her bed.
I shook myself out of my musings. Abe and Glen had moved on to propounding on baseball prospects this season.
“Come on, dude,” Abe said, smiling. “You know the Cards don’t have a chance now they traded away their star catcher.”
Glen scoffed. “And the Reds have better prospects? No way.”
Since Indiana didn’t have a major-league baseball team, Hoosiers’ allegiances were often split among teams from St. Louis, Cincinnati, and Chicago. And fans could argue their relative merits until the cows came home. Except we didn’t have that kind of time right now. Glen clearly wasn’t going to ask us in, and we had to get back, anyway. I needed to meet Roberto and Maria at the store so we wouldn’t be late for Pia’s service.
At the next pause in the conversation, I spoke up. “Sorry to interrupt, but we need to get going. Did you know there’s a memorial service for Pia Bianchi this afternoon?”
Glen blinked, pursing his lips. “Oh?”
“Yes, at the chapel on the IU campus. The music department is holding it.”
“I see.”
“Do you have something planned for Sue?” Abe asked.
“Paula says we need to. It all seems like too much right now, though.” Glen shook his head. “I guess we’ll have to start putting things in motion.”
His daughter Paula had now lost three members of her family, leaving her with only her father and her baby daughter. “How is Paula doing?”
“She’s a basket case, frankly. I think the only thing holding her together is the baby.”
“Well, give her my best.” I did a mental head slap. I hadn’t even thought to bring Paula food, too. Maybe I could squeeze it in later. “Do let us know when the service will be, okay?”
“And if we can help,” Abe said.
“I’ll do that. Thanks for the food.”
Abe extended his hand and shook Glen’s. “You take care, now.”
Glen stepped back and closed the door. The lock clicked shut. As we turned to go, I noticed what I hadn’t when we’d arrived. The front yard, which last year had been trimmed and edged within an inch of its life, now looked unkempt and overgrown. The lawn sprouted broadleaf weeds and was not mown. A shrub had lost its perfect mounded shape. A broken limb dangled off the poplar tree near the sidewalk, hanging from one ribbon of bark. The clematis winding around the lamppost looked dry and forlorn.
Glen or Sue—or both—had been neglecting upkeep on the property. I wished I knew who was the gardener in the family. Who was the neat freak. And why things had changed.
Chapter Thirty-seven
The rustling and murmuring gradually quieted in the chapel on the IU grounds. Roberto, Maria, and I had squeezed into one of the pews at the very back after we’d rushed to arrive by four o’clock. We’d had to park off campus and hurry in through the Sample Gates, ignoring the impressive array of the original limestone buildings on the quad, now over 130 years old. The chapel itself was also built of limestone, with a steeply angled slate roof and a copper spire at one end. Abe had asked if I minded if he stayed home, saying he would prepare a nice dinner for the four of us. I’d said dinner sounded perfect, and I’d be with Roberto and Maria, anyway.
The decor inside was in a gleaming light-colored wood except for plain white walls, which were unadorned, leaving room for people of all faiths to worship. I spied Phil sitting near the aisle next to Adele and Samuel in the second row. The organ, which had been softly playing a piece I thought might be Vivaldi, also stil
led. The light from outside illuminated the blues and reds of a star in a round stained-glass window near the peak of the ceiling. Two candelabras on a table at the front each held a dozen lit white candles.
A woman rose from the front pew, turning to face the mourners. She introduced herself as the chair of the music department. “We gather here today to celebrate the life of our friend, Pia Bianchi. Her musical path held great promise and was tragically cut short.”
My father murmured a translation to Maria.
“I know her family in Italy would have liked to be here but they couldn’t make it. To begin our service, Philostrate MacDonald will sing a tribute to his good friend. After that we welcome your remembrances. Please stand and use a loud and clear voice so all might hear.” She sat.
Phil went forward and cleared his throat. “Pia loved this song, which Emmylou Harris wrote after her friend Kate McGarrigle died,” he said in his deep resonant voice. “I changed the lyrics of ‘Darlin’ Kate’ only a little. I sing it now for Pia.”
Even from where I sat I could see his brilliant blue shirt bringing out the blue in his eyes.
He’d opened his mouth to start when the door at the rear opened and Anne Henderson slid in, closing it softly behind her. Not in uniform today, she wore a simple black jacket with a white blouse and gray pants. When she saw me looking at her, she gave a nod of recognition. She folded her hands in front of her and stood against the back wall, eyes roving over the assemblage.
Phil’s strong lilting voice soared to the rafters, sure of note and surging with feeling. He came to what sounded like the chorus, singing about slipping the surly bonds of earth and sailing away, and that they might meet again somehow, someday. More than one person sniffed. Handkerchiefs and tissues became evident after a verse that said the singer wasn’t sure where his friend had gone, but she would probably find a better song there.
My eyes were wet, too. From the beauty of Phil’s voice in a beautiful building? From the tragedy of any life being cut short? From missing my mom, who didn’t die at a murderer’s hand but who also went too soon and too suddenly? If I had to bet, I’d say all of those. I gazed out the leaded glass window nearest me as the sun dimmed from a passing cloud.
Phil finished. He bowed his head and waited a moment before taking his seat. One by one, others stood and shared memories of Pia. A woman who said Pia had taught her to make ravioli, and that the recipe included an instruction to drink red wine while cooking. That got a laugh. A man, identifying himself as her voice teacher, mentioned that Pia worked harder than most students. After a half dozen more, a man sitting on the other side of the chapel stood.
I did a double take. A gray-suited Glen Berry? What was he doing here? He didn’t even like Pia. Was this for show, to make a public appearance? He must have cleaned up and driven over here in a hurry. I shot a glance at the detective, who looked unfazed but had her full attention on Glen.
“My wife Sue befriended Pia. I’m here on Sue’s behalf, since she also passed away this week.” His voice broke and he stared at the floor for a moment, then took a deep breath and went on. “I know Susie would want me to say how much she would miss Pia, despite some rocky times they were having lately.” He sat again with a heavy thud.
Interesting. Rocky times, absolutely. Tuesday night Sue had been furious with Pia. Would she really have missed the Italian? And was Glen truly as heartbroken over his wife’s death as he was acting? I surveyed the backs of heads in the room. Was Chase here, too? Showing up would take a lot of nerve, especially since his liaison with Pia had been illicit. I didn’t see him.
Our pew creaked as Maria stood, a white handkerchief twisted in her hands. “I visit from Italy.” Her voice rang out.
In front of us, heads twisted to see who was speaking.
“I know Pia family. She was good girl. I pray for her soul.” She crossed herself and sat, then slipped down to kneel, eyes shut, head bowed, her folded hands on the back of the pew in front.
A few people nodded, and a woman two rows up also crossed herself. I supposed I could share I’d been in a puzzle group with Pia, but I hardly knew her at all. I wasn’t shy about speaking in public. You can hardly own a restaurant and not want to talk with people, all kinds of people. But I didn’t have anything in particular to contribute, so I kept my mouth shut.
A guy who looked vaguely familiar stood, wiping a tear from his eye. His hair was pulled into a knot on top of his head like my recently departed guest. But this wasn’t Ed. Where did I recognize him from?
“I’ve been playing music with Pia for a couple years,” he began softly. When a white-haired lady cupped her hand to her ear, his voice grew stronger. “We didn’t play your opera, or your, like classical stuff, what most of you folks probably prefer. Nah, we jammed with banjo, fiddle, spoons, washboard, you name it.”
That’s who he was. The fiddler in Abe’s group at the festival the night before Pia was killed.
“That girl had talent,” the speaker said. “Imma miss her so fuh . . . , I mean, Imma miss her like crazy, man.”
A dead silence took over the airspace, followed by gasps and muttering.
The speaker wrinkled his nose and hung his head, like he’d realized what he’d almost said. “I mean it, you know? Pia could play. She could sing. She could compose. She was like, I don’t know, the next ‘Leonarda’ da Vinci or something. Okay, that’s all. Thanks for listening.” He sank down in the pew, burying his face in his hands.
Abe and Pia had played the same kind of music, and both had played with this grieving man. Maybe my guy should have come instead of staying home to cook. At the least he could have comforted his fellow musician.
The department chair looked around, checking to see if anyone else had something to share. From a corner I hadn’t been able to see, Chase Broward rose awkwardly, as if reluctant to do so.
I heard another gasp from two rows up, and a woman stood and stalked out. I was surprised he was here at all and amazed he apparently was going to speak publicly, but I shouldn’t have been. The man was running for office, after all.
“Pia Bianchi was a fine person,” he began in measured tones, hands clasped at his waist. “Immigrant. Musician. Friend to many. Her loss is a loss to the Indiana University community and to the bluegrass community. I had the honor of playing onstage with her and our friend who just spoke.”
He nodded at Man-Bun, who turned and glared at Chase instead of acknowledging what they had in common. Clearly not actually a friend. Chase ignored the daggerly look. “We played with several others, too, the night before Pia was so horrifically taken from us.”
He was really laying it on thick. Should I have expected anything else from a local politician with national aspirations? CUT TO THE CHASE WITH BROWARD, indeed.
“May she rest in God’s love and find eternal peace,” Chase finished.
I glanced back to see Henderson regarding Chase with a careful gaze.
The chairwoman stood. “That seems a suitable ending for our ceremony.”
I heard an irreverent snort from someone but couldn’t tell who had delivered it.
The chair continued. “I want to thank you all for coming to honor our friend. There will be light refreshments of the wine and cheese variety downstairs immediately following. Glen Berry has graciously donated the wine, and we thank him.”
Glen dipped his head and raised his hand slightly in acknowledgment of the thanks.
The chair went on. “At six o’clock we’re going to adjourn to DeAngelo’s for a meal of the food Pia grew up eating, and you are all welcome to join us there. The restaurant owners, good friends of Pia’s, have reserved the entire place for us.”
Glen donated wine for the reception of a woman he despised. Well, bless his heart, as Adele would say.
Chapter Thirty-eight
It looked like nearly everyone from the service had filed downstairs for the wine and cheese. The room hummed with conversation and the air smelled of freshly baked cookies
.
I balanced three glasses of white wine over to Roberto and Maria where they perched on chairs along the side of the room.
“I’ll be back with a few appetizers,” I said.
“Grazie, Roberta,” my father said.
Maria smiled her thanks. Her gaze slid to Anne Henderson, who stood talking with the department chair. Maria shuddered before looking away. She really did have a thing about the police.
I made my way to the end of the food table and found myself behind Phil. “What a lovely song you chose, Phil.”
He twisted to see me. “Thanks, my friend. Pia deserved it.”
“Funny how so many seemed to have loved her. But she rubbed nearly an equal number the wrong way,” I murmured.
“She wasn’t easy, I’ll admit. But she had a good heart in there. I will truly miss her.”
I hugged him with one arm, then we made our way down the table. I knew I was going straight to dinner after this. I stuck to carrots and celery and ignored my stomach. It wanted desperately to steer me toward the cheese and crackers I piled on a small plate for Roberto and Maria. I also avoided the already half-empty platter of cookies, despite their inviting aroma.
As I walked back across the room, I casually surveyed it. Glen Berry seemed to have left. I was surprised he’d even come to the service itself, and I didn’t blame him for skipping this part of the ritual. He was going to have to endure another nearly identical gathering one day soon, except Sue’s services would take place in Our Lady of the Springs, the Catholic church in town. The date would depend on when the police released Sue’s body, I supposed. Which reminded me I still hadn’t taken any food to Paula. Later tonight? Unlikely. I wanted to relax at dinner, and then I had food prep to do for tomorrow. Sunday night couldn’t come too soon, the evening when prep wasn’t part of my day because I closed the restaurant on Mondays. I loved my life, but it was also nice to take a break once in a while.
I delivered the food to Roberto and Maria, who were chatting in low voices in Italian, and picked up my wine. Clumps of Pia’s friends and colleagues conversed in various formations. Phil and Man-Bun stood in a corner talking. Chase looked every inch the politician, wandering around introducing himself and shaking hands. Definitely a man running for office.