It took more makeup than usual to cover the dark circles under Heather’s eyes. She purposefully made her arrival to breakfast late, hoping to avoid her father, doubting she’d ever forgive him for the way he treated Jack. She shouldn’t have wasted her time practicing what to say. An empty seat, a clean plate, and an undisturbed newspaper next to a china coffee cup with saucer all bore witness that he’d skipped breakfast.
The sideboard held shining chafing dishes, keeping a full breakfast warm. Heather settled for whole wheat toast, a pat of butter, and a small scoop of scrambled eggs. She rejected the breakfast meats and a cup of fresh fruit. After settling herself at the table, she picked at the eggs, choked down half a slice of toast and drank only one cup of coffee. The house matched her mood: dark and silent, as if the materials the craftsman had labored over during construction knew this day would come. It was the home’s way of showing respect to the matriarch.
Heather went to her room and gazed out the window into the back garden. How many times had she seen the same view, and how many times did she long to be somewhere else? A soft drizzle muted the scene. “Funeral weather,” she said.
She turned and noticed her phone on the nightstand. Heather powered it on and a blinking blue light alerted her to at least one missed message or call. “One? More likely to be thirty.” She ignored the notifications and called her pilot with instructions to have her plane ready to leave that evening. “I wish I could give you a more exact time, but I’m not sure how long the service at the church and the burial will take. I may have to come back to the house, but I want to leave as soon as possible.”
“That might not work,” said the pilot. “There’s a glitch with the backup radio. The repair technician is busy until sometime this afternoon.”
Heather let out a deep sigh. “Do what you can. I’ll call for an update after the graveside services.”
She disconnected the call, shut the phone down again and looked around the room. An involuntary shiver caused her to hug herself as a sensation of not belonging came over her. She whispered, “This is not my home. I’m not sure it ever was.”
A knock on the door brought her back to herself. “Come in.”
Her father appeared, dressed in his pajamas, robe, and house shoes. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him wearing bedclothes. He looked away, avoiding eye contact after closing the door behind him. “I… uh…”
He looked up, and she beheld red-rimmed eyes.
“I wanted to make sure you knew the schedule for the day.”
Heather stood straight, as if someone had covered her in quick drying cement. She spoke with emotionless words. “I was wondering when I needed to be ready. I’m sure you have my every move planned.”
He nodded. “Would you prefer I tell you or give you the printed itinerary?”
“Printed is my preference.”
Her father cleared his throat. “This is rather hard to say, but I expect you to sit at my side during the memorial service and stand by me at graveside.”
“Of course,” she said with clipped words. “Propriety demands it.” She paused. “I’ll be leaving as soon as possible, but I learned this morning my plane needs a minor repair.”
“Like I said yesterday, this is your home. You may come and go as you please.”
It took everything in Heather not to say that this mansion stopped being her home a long time ago, if it ever was. She also stuffed down the desire to say she had no intention of ever coming here again after he treated Jack like an uninvited salesman. But she thought of her mother and bit her tongue. Instead, she said, “I’ll tell Rose not to expect me for breakfast tomorrow.”
Her father responded with a nod, turned, and left.
If she thought she’d exhausted her supply of tears, Heather was sorely mistaken. Something had torn in the fabric of her life yesterday. Life would be different from now on.
The funeral passed in front of her as a blur of sights and sounds; high church with an overpowering organ and an aged priest who spoke with perfect diction. Her eyes stayed locked on her mother’s casket. She was glad her personal assistant included a somber hat with a black veil. The surprise came when her father abandoned his stoicism, allowed silent tears to slide down his cheeks, and took her hand. She concluded her parents had deep feelings for each other, somewhere under the layers of society-imposed expectations.
Soggy graveside services kept the crowd down, which she counted as a small blessing in an otherwise dreadful day. The burial service lasted a mercifully short amount of time, which also suited her. She dutifully placed a single flower on her mother’s coffin and allowed an unknown man with an umbrella to shield her from the mist. She walked to a waiting limousine where her father joined her, and they made a wordless journey back to the place that had once been her home.
She’d memorized the printed itinerary, which called for a reception with some of her father’s most influential business associates and political luminaries. It proved to be the acid test of all her careful training in the social graces. She appeared to all as the dutiful, loving daughter of one of Boston’s most influential men. After an hour and a half of making the rounds and receiving near-identical expressions of sympathy, she escaped to the sanctuary of her bedroom, where she immediately activated her phone and called her pilot. “Tell me the radio’s fixed and you have the plane ready to go.”
“All fixed, and I’ve filed our flight plan. We’re waiting for you.”
“I’ll leave in the next ten minutes.”
With her plan in place to make her escape through the back door, she called the family chauffeur. She slipped out of the black dress and put on leggings, a long, comfy knit shirt and cross-trainer shoes.
A tap on the door came when she snapped her suitcase shut.
“I came to give you a hand,” said the chauffeur.
“Thanks. Let’s go down the back stairs and through the kitchen.”
“Just like old times,” said the man, who was about the same age as her father. “You always preferred to use the back door.”
“Only this time I’m not sneaking out.”
“Of course not, Miss Heather.”
The lid to the trunk of the black Mercedes made a distinct sound when it closed, like an auditory exclamation mark. Heather turned to the man who’d driven her to ballet classes when she was four. “I’ll ride up front with you, if you don’t mind.”
“As you wish. You never did like the back seat.”
“I like to see where I’m going.”
Heather glanced at the house a final time as they passed the conservatory. The man she saw looking out the window might have been her father, but the mist-fogged windows made it impossible to tell. She turned her head and looked out the passenger side. Her words came out with a hesitation. “Did you take Father somewhere last night?”
“I did.”
“Can you tell me where?”
“Do you promise to make it our secret like we used to?”
“I won’t tell Father.”
He wheeled around a corner. “We went to Fenway Park.”
Heather jerked her head to the left. “My Father went to see the Red Sox play last night? I didn’t know he ever went to baseball games.”
“It’s been a recent development. He and your mother started going after they returned from seeing you in Texas. Five of us went last night. The Sox beat the Yankees five to four. Then we went to the Bull and Finch Pub, where we had a late supper and a few rounds from the bar.”
Heather shook her head. “He must have a big deal cooking and needed to entertain clients.”
“I couldn’t say. None of the three men were from Boston.”
After fighting their way through traffic, Heather boarded her twin-engine jet as the copilot and chauffeur loaded suitcases and hanging clothes. The engines came to life as she buckled her seatbelt, pulled up a retractable tabletop, and placed her laptop on it.
“Care for something to drink before we take off?” asked the copilot.
“Not yet. It seems I have about fifty emails to go through.” She looked up as the copilot walked away. “By the way, nice ball cap.”
He turned, took it off, and smiled. “Sorry. I forgot I had it on. I’m not that much of a Red Sox fan, but I can’t stand the Yankees.”
Heather returned the smile as she looked down at her computer screen.
The plane screamed down the runway and went airborne as Heather shuffled through the emails, filing or deleting as she went. One caught her eye, and she reached for the corded phone beside her. She punched in the overseas number and waited. It rang five times before she realized the time difference between 7:00 p.m. Boston time and whatever that was in South Korea.
“Hello, Ms. McBlythe.”
“I hope I didn’t wake you, Mr. Cho.”
“No, no. I’m so sorry to hear about your mother. Please accept my condolences.”
“That’s very kind.” She paused, remembering her mother’s face. “I wanted to thank you for getting back to me concerning Dora Chen.”
“Yes. She was an optometrist in good standing. She practiced for several years before marrying a United States serviceman. She applied for and received a work visa.”
“No criminal history?”
“None.”
“Did anything stand out to you as odd or unusual?”
“Only one thing. She left this country with a large amount of money.”
Heather reread portions of the email as she searched for another question to ask. “One last thing. Can you think of any reason Dora Chen isn’t an optometrist here in the States?”
“No. It surprises me she isn’t.”
“Thank you. Please say hello to your wife and children. I hope they remember me.”
“All I had to say was the woman with auburn hair called and the little one squealed. I hope you didn’t mind them wanting to touch your hair. It’s a cultural thing here to touch hair that’s as beautiful as yours.”
“I took it as a compliment. Thank you so much for looking into this matter for me.”
“Dr. Chen isn’t in any kind of trouble, is she?”
“The police are eliminating suspects. This information may help a great deal.”
Again, he chuckled. “Your father used to tell me he was afraid you’d turn into a grown-up version of Nancy Drew. I didn’t know what he meant until I read the books.”
“My father is realizing his worst fears.”
“He’s an honorable man who loves you very much. I hurt for him on the loss of his wife and your mother.”
Heather tried to speak but could only squeak out a quick, “Thank you. You’re very kind.”
After hanging up, she placed her laptop in the seat Jack should have been sitting in and made her way to the small galley at the front of the plane. She opened the door to the refrigerator, withdrew a Coke Zero, and returned to her seat.
Her next phone call went to Steve, who answered on the second ring. As was sometimes his habit, he spoke what was on his mind without a word of greeting. “It sounds like you’re homeward bound. How are you faring?”
“Not good.”
“Did you get any sleep last night?”
“No.”
“Are you drinking coffee?”
“A Coke with no sugar or caffeine.”
“Yuk.”
His reaction made her smile. Then he said, “Put your computer away, pull down the shades, turn off the lights, cover up with a blanket, and go to sleep. It might help if you pretended you were on that catamaran we talked about.”
“I have information to give you about Dora Chen and businesses that might be interested in taking over Melody and Chris’s practices and stores.”
“Those can wait until tomorrow. Kate and I are meeting Chris and Detective Hall for dinner. We’re driving to the restaurant now. I’m hoping to get a better read of Chris.”
Heather heard tires squeal. Kate let out a string of words, the nicest being “idiot.”
“What happened?” asked Heather.
Kate’s voice sounded loud and clear. “Some guy in an old pickup truck cut me off so he could pull into a fried chicken restaurant. Sorry about the colorful language.”
Steve chuckled. “That must be good chicken. I’ll have to try it.” He paused. “Speaking of food, I’ll expect you and Kate for breakfast at my place bright and early tomorrow morning.”
“Are you sure you don’t want my update tonight?”
“I can tell by your voice you’ve been through enough for one day. We’ll start fresh in the morning. The weather forecast is for thunderstorms tonight and sunny, hot days from here on.”
“That will be a welcome relief.”