Jaycee keeps her head down. There’s a rustling commotion; several people in the crowded room turn to look at her as she carefully closes the other door.
A robed reverend is speaking beside the gleaming urn—no plain pine box for Meredith Heywood’s remains—and every folding chair and inch of perimeter wall is occupied. No one else is wearing a hat or sunglasses. Realizing this getup makes her even more conspicuous, Jaycee removes both and wedges herself into a narrow slot beside the door, staring at the carpet, reminding herself why she’s here.
Not just because she wanted to escape New York on what would have been a difficult day, thanks to Cory’s early delivery of the morning paper with its disturbing news item.
No, she’s here for Meredith.
Meredith, who lived her life in such a way that her funeral is standing room only. When all is said and done, that’s all that really matters, although . . .
When her time comes, she thinks, her own funeral might be just as crowded—or more so. But not with friends and relatives who loved her for who she was and will truly miss her when she’s gone.
No—they’d be drawn to her funeral for very different reasons . . .
Unless something changes very drastically.
You can do that. You can change, even now. It’s not too late.
Meredith’s voice seems to fill her head.
Of course, even when she gave that little pep talk, Meredith never knew the truth about her . . .
But she does now, Jaycee realizes. Wherever she is.
Maybe her spirit really is here, offering support, and . . . forgiveness.
Jaycee closes her eyes, head bowed.
If you’re here, Meredith, I’m so sorry. I hope you know that I only did what I had to do.
What I thought I had to do.
As she reflects on the choices she made, a feeling creeps over her—not peaceful comfort, but a familiar wariness that has become second nature after all these years: the distinct sensation that she’s being watched.
She lifts her head slightly, half expecting to see Meredith’s ghost—or perhaps one of the bloggers, having somehow spotted her and figured out who she is.
That’s impossible, though. Even if they’re here, they can’t possibly know that you’re . . . you. Her. Whoever—whoever you’ve convinced them you are. Jaycee.
When she looks up, she finds herself making immediate eye contact with a woman who’s standing along the wall toward the front of the room, staring right at her.
She’s African-American, so she can’t be Landry, Kay, or Elena. She’s just some random person who for some reason seems to be paying more attention to the mourners than to the service itself.
She’s the cop, Jaycee realizes. God knows she’s had more than her share of contact with them. She can sniff out law enforcement even from this distance.
Now, as the woman gets a good look at her face, her eyes narrow with recognition.
Jaycee quickly looks down again, heart pounding. So much for blessed anonymity. The lady cop’s gaze remains as palpable as the searing glare of a heat lamp.
Damn it, damn it, damn it.
She shouldn’t have come. She should have fought the familiar old instinct to run away. Anniversary or not, newspaper article or not, she should have spent the weekend locked safely into her apartment in the sky, away from prying eyes.
As the service draws to a close with Meredith Heywood’s daughter reading a poem, there isn’t a dry eye in the house—except, perhaps, for Crystal’s and Frank’s.
It isn’t that they’re immune to emotion in a tragic case such as this, but when you’re a homicide detective, you have to compartmentalize.
Crystal sweeps yet another shrewd gaze over the crowd of mourners. Most of them are surreptitiously dabbing their eyes with tissues or sobbing openly.
Hank Heywood sits on the aisle seat in the front row with his head buried in his hands. Across the space vacated by Rebecca, her duplicitous husband Keith seems detached from her brothers, who sit beside him with their wives between them, all four of them clasping hands.
Keith is fixated on his wife as she reads the poem, not daring to sneak a peek at his secret boyfriend.
Jonathan Randall slipped into the service right after it started, standing in the back.
Crystal noticed him immediately—and noticed Keith turning his head to look for him moments later, as if sensing his presence. He offered a glassy smile when he spotted Jonathan, and Jonathan returned it.
Crystal watched them closely as the service progressed. They barely glanced at each other, but she could feel the vibe between them and knew they were as aware of each other as middle schoolers deliberately not noticing members of the opposite sex at a dance.
She also kept a steady eye on Hank Heywood. The man appears utterly shattered. His daughter kept her arm around him throughout the service, letting go only to walk shakily to the podium to read her poem.
Her voice wavers as she speaks, and she stops several times, too choked up to go on. Now the poem is winding down.
“And afterward, remember, do not grieve . . .”
As Rebecca reads the line, Crystal sees, out of the corner of her eye, movement near the exit at the back of the room.
She looks up just in time to see Jenna Coeur disappear through the double doors.
Crystal hadn’t immediately recognized her when she first arrived—late, and wearing an oversized black hat and sunglasses in a room almost entirely populated by sturdy, well-scrubbed midwesterners in department store suits and dresses.
She must have realized she stuck out like a cupcake on a plate of toast, because she skittishly removed the hat and glasses, further attracting Crystal’s attention. There was something furtive about her movements, the way she kept her head down . . .
Crystal’s instincts told her that she was looking at a woman who had something to hide.
The moment they made eye contact, Crystal realized that her instincts were dead on. She had something to hide, all right: she’d been at the center of one of the most notorious murder cases in recent years.
Jenna Coeur’s dark hair might be dyed blond or concealed beneath a wig now, but her natural beauty and famously distinct resemblance to the actress Ingrid Bergman was immediately recognizable. She looked like Bergman in Casablanca at the height of her career: the large eyes beneath arched brows, the strong nose, the high cheekbones.
What, Crystal wondered with interest—and yes, with suspicion—was she doing here?
After that fleeting eye contact, Jenna never lifted her head again, just stood staring at her clasped hands for the remainder of the service, as if praying.
Praying, no doubt, that she hadn’t been recognized.
But she had.
And now she’s made her escape, getting a head start before the mass exodus begins.
Crystal reminds herself that it may mean absolutely nothing, in the grand scheme of things.
Coeur was, after all, acquitted.
That may very well mean she didn’t commit murder.
It may also mean that she did—and got away with it.
Once, anyway.
Crystal weaves through the crowd as quickly as she can without disrupting the service.
At last she reaches the door and steps outside—just in time to hear a car spitting gravel as it pulls out of the parking lot onto the highway, just beyond her range of view.
Jenna Coeur, driving away.
But I won’t forget that you were here, Crystal promises silently. And believe me, I’m going to find out why.
A Cause Worth Fighting For
Last weekend, while I was tied up with a prior commitment, many of my fellow bloggers gathered for the National Breast Cancer Coalition Advocacy Training Conference. Here were wo
men I’ve never met, but spend time with everyday. Whose words and work I admire. Whose thoughts I connect with. They gathered in Washington to fight for NBCC’s goal to end breast cancer by 2020.
At last, an exciting mission, empowering when embraced. For too long it seems we were stuck in a sea of pink, hearing of changes, wanting to believe advancements were being made. Needing to believe optimistic statistics when in actuality approximately 40,000 people still die from this disease every year.
About as many as two decades ago.
That’s not advancement. That’s not change. That’s a number hidden so far down in a sea of pink we barely see it, but deep within ourselves, where the scary thoughts thrive, we know it’s the truth. Pink awareness is not enough.
The people attending this event heard the conversation shift. They refocused on facts, and with a concrete goal in sight discussed how research, combined with action and dedication, could have the 2020 eradication deadline within our grasps.
Social media was at its finest as bloggers tweeted from their workshops. I couldn’t absorb the information fast enough and want to thank them for taking time to spread the inspiration around.
If I had to choose a place to be that weekend, it would have been there in Washington, beside this group of incredibly motivated women. Dragging cancer to the center of the room for all to see. Believing it was now possible to kick out the unwanted guest . . . never to be seen again.
—Excerpt from Jaycee’s blog, PC BC
Chapter 10
Jaycee had spotted a Starbucks along the mile of suburban highway between the interstate exit and the funeral home. Now, making her way back, she keeps an eye out for it, desperate to grab a cup of coffee for the road. Good, strong, familiar coffee, as opposed to the watered-down stuff they served her on the flight.
Cory might tease her about her affinity for Starbucks, but there’s something to be said for consistency and availability. Especially when you’ve traveled all over the world, or been trapped in a prison cell—neither of which guarantee you a decent cup of coffee on a daily basis.
She should know, unlike Cory, who spent his life luxuriating in the concrete canyons of Manhattan and the rugged canyons of L.A., taking creature comforts for granted.
Zeroing in on the familiar green and white logo on a signpost up ahead, Jaycee checks the rearview mirror out of habit, to make sure she isn’t being followed. She half expects to spot the Crown Victoria from the funeral home parking lot on her tail.
But all she sees is a red pickup truck, a couple of SUVs, and a little white car, and they all fly right on past as she turns into the parking lot.
Good.
She’s pretty sure that the woman back at the funeral home recognized her—and that she happened to be law enforcement. But even if that was the case, the woman would have no reason to come chasing after her, right? Attending a funeral isn’t a crime.
Hell, some crimes aren’t even a crime.
No one knows that better than you do.
Not that she wants to think about all that now. She came here to escape.
Right. Brilliant move.
Most people needing a reprieve would hop a plane to some remote Caribbean island. But not you. Nope. You fly away to a funeral.
Yes, but a friend’s funeral—a friend who meant a lot to her. A friend she hasn’t fully allowed herself to grieve, even now.
But when you get right down to it, is she really here in Ohio solely because of Meredith? Ever since the others began making plans to come for the service this weekend, there was a part of her that wistfully longed to join them even though she knew it was impossible.
She isn’t one of them. Not really.
As usual, she tried to push the uncomfortable truth to the back of her mind. But it’s pretty telling that the moment trouble popped up and she needed to flee, this is where she wound up.
I guess I was meant to be here all along, watching from the sidelines.
So what else is new?
Jaycee parks the car, grabs her wallet from the oversized bag on the seat, and goes into Starbucks wearing just the sunglasses and of course her blond wig, but not the hat. Aside from baseball caps, no one around here wears hats, not even to a funeral. She should have known better than to choose a disguise that would make her even more conspicuous. She won’t make that mistake again.
Stepping across the threshold, she takes a deep breath of java-laced air and is instantly soothed by the familiar, manufactured-to-be-inviting setting: mood lighting, intimate tables and chairs suitable for one, hipster baristas, vintage crooners on the audio system. The people sitting and sipping are either caught up in quiet conversations, absorbed in their laptops, or plugged into headphones. No one gives her a second glance as she joins the line of people waiting to order.
When it’s her turn, she steps forward and asks for the usual: a venti latte with a triple shot of espresso.
“Name?” asks the girl behind the register.
“Annie,” Jaycee tells her, and watches her write it in marker on a venti-sized cup.
Annie was her first cellmate, a crackhead prostitute with three little kids and the proverbial heart of gold. She’d killed her dealer—or was it her pimp? Jaycee doesn’t remember the exact details of the case now; it was a long time ago and they weren’t cellmates for very long. She only knows that while Annie might have been a murderer—though she said she’d done it in self-defense—her odd blend of streetwise sass and protective maternal attitude helped Jaycee survive some rough days, and rougher nights.
“Don’chu forget me now,” Annie said before she was transferred to another jail, closer to where her kids were. “When I get out, I’m go’an come look you up.”
“I’ll probably still be here.”
Annie was already shaking her head. “You go’an get off, girlfriend. You mark my words.”
She was right.
Annie never did come find her. Chances are she’s probably serving a long prison sentence, or back on the streets, or dead.
But Annie didn’t want to be forgotten, and she hasn’t been. Jaycee uses the name now as her random default identity for Starbucks and anywhere else she has to place an order with a name attached. She used to choose something different every time, but that became confusing. She’d forget who she was supposed to be.
Even now, there are days when she forgets: Jaycee, or Jenna Coeur, or her real name . . . or any number of identities she’s used and discarded over the years.
She pays for her beverage and pockets the change. Back home in New York she’d have left it in the tips cup on the counter. Here, hardly anyone does that. She’s been watching.
When in Rome . . .
That’s the key to keeping a low profile. You fit in with the locals. Don’t provide reason for them to give you a second glance. Throwing tip money into the cup would necessitate an extra thank you from the cashier or might arouse resentment in the customers behind her; not tipping makes her just like everybody else.
Less than a minute later the barista is calling, “Ann?”
Jaycee thanks her and takes a sip. The hot, pleasantly strong liquid slides down her throat.
Ah. Finally, a moment of peace.
She eyes the seating area, spotting an empty table for one beside the big picture window facing the road.
Maybe she won’t take her coffee to go after all. It would be a relief just to settle down for a few minutes and check her e-mails and text messages. By now Cory must have figured out she’s gone. He’s probably worried.
He doesn’t know about Meredith, of course—and she has no intention of telling him.
As Meredith’s daughter finishes reading the last few lines of her poem, Landry wipes tears from her eyes with a soggy tissue. She can’t help but marvel at the young woman’s strength; can’t
help but compare her to Addison.
If it were my funeral, she’d do the same thing, Landry finds herself thinking. She’s so strong. Stronger than I could ever be.
Meredith would have been proud.
The minister steps back to the podium with a few final words, and at last it’s over. The crowd begins to move.
Someone touches Landry on the arm.
She looks up to see an attractive African-American woman flashing a badge.
“I’m Detective Crystal Burns,” she says, addressing all three of them. “I’m assuming you’re friends of Meredith’s?”
Caught off guard, Landry nods.
“Mind if I ask how you knew her?”
It’s Elena who answers promptly, “Only through the Internet.”
The detective pulls out a little notebook, and Landry grasps that this is not going to be a quick, simple conversation.
“Ladies,” she says, “I know this is not the best time or place to talk. I’d like to take down your names and ask you a few quick questions, and then maybe, if the three of you are staying in town, we can meet a little later to talk further?”
Landry quickly speaks for all of them: “Anything we can do to help, Detective.”
The bag containing Roger Lorton’s final effects has been lying on the floor beside the front door ever since the detective delivered it this morning.
It isn’t until later in the day—much later—that Sheri finally musters the strength to pick it up and carry it to the living room, trailed by the puppy’s jingling dog tags. She sits in a chair and Maggie settles at her feet. She’s been sticking close to Sheri’s side these past few days, since Roger’s murder. Every once in a while she looks up as if there’s something she wants Sheri to know.
You saw the person who killed him, didn’t you, girl?
But you can’t talk, and whoever did it is going to get away with it.
The Perfect Stranger Page 20