Jenny woke up a minute before the alarm was set to go off, her chest tight with anxiety. She was scheduled to deliver Kate’s eulogy from the well of Mem Church in a matter of hours. Lines from her speech rattled around her brain all night and kept her awake, but delivering the eulogy was not her biggest worry this morning. Just as Jenny had feared, somebody leaked the search warrant to the press, and she was expecting an onslaught of cameras and TV trucks at the funeral. The warrant named Griff as the prime suspect in Kate’s murder and gave salacious details about the crime. The beautiful blond wife goes missing on the day she files for divorce, the same day her trust fund vests, leaving her with two hundred and fifty thousand that would now go to the husband. The wife is found washed up by the side of the river with a fractured skull. The husband—whose father is a notorious fraudster once worth hundreds of millions—hides a bloodstained Brooks Brothers shirt at the bottom of the laundry hamper. It was catnip, and Jenny had no hope of containing the story now.
Keniston Eastman’s voicemail from last night still rang in her ears. He wasn’t just irate over the leak; he was distraught over his daughter’s death, and beside himself at the implication that his son-in-law was involved. Jenny would have to face Keniston this morning, and she dreaded it.
Then there were the problems closer to home. Tim slept beside her, his face in repose exhausted and troubled. He’d been out of sorts for days now. They hadn’t made up. Jenny kept her distance, walked on eggshells. She had enough trouble, between the funeral and trying to keep a lid on the publicity surrounding the murder case, to face another argument.
She got out of bed with a sigh and went downstairs to start the coffee. The boys would be up in half an hour, but before that she had time to check the news and review her speech. She threw a coat over her nightgown, stuck her feet into her UGGs, and went out to collect the Belle River Register from the curb. Overnight, snow had fallen, and the driveway was slick. White clouds of breath trailed behind her. She shook the snow from the paper in its plastic wrapper. The sky was pink and brightening rapidly, and the air was sharp as crystal. Kate would have a pretty day for her funeral, at least. But of course, Kate hated the cold.
Back in the kitchen, she unfurled the newspaper. “Brooks Brothers Killer,” the headline shrieked, over a giant, four-color photograph of Kate and Griff on their wedding day. Poor Griff. Jenny felt awful for him, but it was the box story to the right of the main article that made her gasp. “Murder Victim Previously Present at Local Man’s Death,” it read. There was a tiny, blurry BRHS yearbook photo of Lucas under the headline.
Someone had put two and two together, and connected Kate to Lucas’s death. The byline said the author was Bill Buckwald, the same reporter who’d been interested in interviewing Kate at Jenny’s Labor Day party months ago. Buckwald reported that, twenty-two years before, the coroner ruled Lucas’s drowning a “death by misadventure,” and the Arsenault family fought unsuccessfully to overturn that verdict and open a homicide investigation. Jenny read the rest of the article with her heart in her throat, relaxing only when she got to the end and hadn’t found her own name. The article merely said that Kate had been present at the bridge the night Lucas died, and that the circumstances of Lucas’s death were the subject of dispute. The Register didn’t seem to be arguing—heaven forbid—that there was any connection between Lucas’s death and Kate’s. So why even publish such a story? Was this just for local color, or was Buckwald fishing for dirt on the Arsenault case? She’d have to keep her eye on that.
Jenny went into the den and clicked on the television, flipping back and forth between the local stations and the national morning shows to see what they were saying. Kate’s murder was everywhere. The local stations talked of nothing else, but even the national networks were covering it. Most of them seemed to be calling it the “Carlisle murder,” though a few had picked up “Brooks Brothers killer,” and one even had it as the “country club murder,” though neither Kate nor Griff belonged to a country club. One of the national networks flashed a picture of Kate taken when she was a teenager, in riding clothes in front of a mansion, looking gorgeous, rich, and extremely blond. Jenny knew that picture. It had been in the house on Faculty Row, the house Rizzo had just searched—Keniston’s house. Ditto the next picture, of Griff on the deck of a yacht looking like Thurston Howell the Fourth. How had the press gotten hold of those photos? Had Chief Rizzo taken them from the house and leaked them? He still hadn’t returned her phone calls, and she was increasingly uneasy with how he was handling the case. As she watched, the television news anchor started talking about yet another piece of evidence that should have remained confidential. A DNA test had apparently proved that scrapings of human skin taken from under Kate’s fingernails belonged to Griff. Evidence straight from the state crime lab, fed to the press. Now, maybe that was some rogue lab technician, but maybe it was Rizzo, trying to gin up public sentiment for a murder investigation so nobody would be able to slow him down. Jenny recalled her conversation with Robbie Womack about trying to build evidence to argue for Chief Rizzo’s removal. She’d been having her doubts about opposing the chief, but the press reports made her very nervous.
Jenny turned on her phone. Her voicemail box was full, and she had sixty-seven e-mails, mostly from reporters—some from as far away as Italy and Japan. There was also an urgent e-mail from the head of Carlisle Safety and Security saying that the town green and the Quad were overrun with TV trucks, that Belle River PD was completely AWOL and he couldn’t get through to the chief of police. Now that was something she could use. In a town like Belle River, the one thing people expected from the police was decent traffic control. Jenny forwarded that e-mail to every member of the town council, with the subject line “Carlisle concerns about Chief Rizzo’s performance.” Then she woke the kids and told them to grab a granola bar for breakfast.
An hour later, clad in a new black suit, her hair and makeup perfect and her speech memorized, Jenny headed down the hill into town. Traffic snarled the streets of Belle River beyond anything she’d seen in all her years here. Jenny had a meeting soon with Griff and the Eastman family to review funeral arrangements, and what normally was a ten-minute drive was already taking twenty. She decided to park at the office and walk to Mem Church so she wouldn’t have to fight the gridlock for that extra few blocks. After waiting nearly five minutes to make a left across traffic into the town garage, Jenny found an unknown car with out-of-town plates parked in her space, right under the big sign that said Reserved for Mayor Healy. That was the last straw. She whipped out her phone and dialed Owen Rizzo, who hadn’t answered her calls for the past two days. She planned to leave an angry voicemail, but to her surprise, he picked up.
“Chief Rizzo. Finally,” Jenny said.
“I see you forwarded an e-mail about parking problems to the entire town council,” Rizzo said, indignation in his voice.
“Yes, I did. I just drove through the downtown, which is overrun, and there was not one single patrol car in sight. I need to know what you’re doing about this situation.”
“So talk to me about it. Don’t go behind my back,” Rizzo said.
“How can I talk to you when you won’t return my phone calls?” Jenny said.
“I’ve been a little busy, as you may have noticed.”
“Unfortunately, I have noticed. We need to talk about how you’re handling Kate Eastman’s death. I thought we had a good relationship, Chief. But you don’t even call me when she’s found. You unilaterally decide that this is a murder instead of a suicide, and you go to the press without consulting me. I’m beginning to have some serious doubts about your judgment,” Jenny said, trying to keep her voice calm.
“Police matters are my department, Madam Mayor,” Rizzo said.
“You may be chief, but I’m the mayor of this town, and you need to work with me, simple as that.”
“Look, we had this discussion before when we had that ruckus over a simple staffing change. Ma’am, with all due respect, I need my independence, or I can’t do my job. I run the department my way. Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to ask you a few questions about Kate Eastman, given that you were a friend of hers.”
“You have questions? Well, I have an answer. This was a suicide. Everybody who knows Kate thinks that. It was not a murder. Her husband didn’t kill her. You’re off on a frolic and detour, with no proof.”
“I have proof. I have an expert report—”
“Right, I heard. How exactly did you pay for that, by the way?” Jenny demanded.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m asking, where did you get the money to pay for an outside expert?”
“I really can’t brook this kind of interference,” Rizzo said.
“From what I see, you’re failing to look out for the well-being of this community, and that’s my business. This case could’ve been handled privately to spare the family the pain. Instead you’re off on some crusade, investigating some nonexistent crime, while the entire town is overrun by TV crews.”
“Madam Mayor, I’ll say it again. Managing the department is my job.”
“Then manage it. Or we’ll end up with some poor old lady getting run over, and you’ll be out of a job. Now I have to go. I’m delivering Kate’s eulogy.”
Jenny hung up resolutely. Maybe she hadn’t come right out and said it, but she’d hinted sufficiently to give Rizzo fair warning: If he didn’t change his tune and start working with her instead of against her, she’d have him removed from office. As mayor, Jenny wasn’t a dictator, but she wasn’t a pushover either. She took care of business when the situation called for it. Speaking of—she got on the phone to the town’s tow-truck concession and told them to boot that damn car and get it out of her parking space, ASAP.
Walking down Briggs Street, taking care not to slip on the ice in her high-heeled pumps, Jenny marveled at the size of the crowds. Cars were parked haphazardly on sidewalks, TV trucks blocked driveways, and reporters with recognizable faces did sound checks on the town green. Briggs Gate had been closed off by two Carlisle Safety and Security vans parked lengthwise across its expanse. One of the officers recognized Jenny and waved her through. The massive Gothic bulk of Mem Church sat just inside the gate, anchoring the west end of the Quad. Its grayish limestone façade was a drab contrast to the mellow brick buildings around it, and looked sober and gloomy against the fresh white snow. But you couldn’t deny its majesty. From the tall stained-glass windows to the soaring steeple to the sweeping stone steps that fronted it, the church impressed. This was the place Carlisle reserved for its greatest dignitaries—Nobel laureates, presidents, literary lions, Eastmans. Jenny had to wonder if Keniston regretted the decision to hold Kate’s funeral here. It was looking more like an ambush than an honor. Keniston must be wishing he’d chosen some obscure country graveyard for his daughter’s funeral so he could mourn her in peace.
The massive wooden front doors were locked, so she went around to the side entrance, where another Carlisle safety officer stood guard. From there she took the elevator down to the basement, and walked down a long, echoing stone hallway to the suite of offices at the back, which smelled of burnt coffee and heating oil. When she walked into the conference room and caught sight of Keniston, Jenny struggled to keep the dismay from showing in her face. He sat hunched in a wheelchair, frail and shrunken, a yellow cast to his skin, his son Benji on one side of him, and Griff on the other. Keniston had aged almost beyond recognition in the year and a half since she’d seen him at Victoria’s funeral. Griff looked awful, too—pale as death, with a day’s growth of beard and dark circles under his eyes. Jenny knew Griff intended to be at the funeral, but with the press accusing him of murdering his wife, she’d wondered if he would change his mind. It took guts to show his face under the circumstances—and show it not only to the public, but to his wife’s family. Keniston seemed to be treating Griff with grave civility. Maybe he’d decided that the best way to handle the negative press attention was to present a united front?
Jenny went to Keniston and leaned down for an awkward half hug. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she whispered.
Then she made her way around the table, hugging Griff and Benji, and shaking hands with the Right Reverend Maurice Jeffries, Carlisle’s chaplain, who would be conducting the service. They spent a somber fifteen minutes reviewing the order of the proceedings. When that business was concluded, Keniston asked for a moment alone with Jenny. The others left the room, though Jenny wished she could beg them to stay. She’d been dreading this conversation for days.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Jenny said, before Keniston could speak. “Let me say it for you. I’m beside myself at the press coverage, Keniston. I’ve tried to control it, but the chief of police is new and he’s an outsider. He doesn’t understand the town, or the college. I believe he’s responsible for the leaks to the media, and I swear to you, I’m trying to rein him in.”
“You think I’m upset about the press coverage?” Keniston said, his craggy eyebrows drawing together. His voice might be weak with age and illness, but to Jenny, he was as intimidating as ever.
“I thought so. I am,” she said.
“At my age, you stop worrying about how things look,” Keniston said, “and focus on what really matters. I’m upset that my daughter is dead, and my son-in-law is accused of murdering her. That’s what I care about.”
“Of course,” Jenny said. “I never meant to suggest otherwise. I just thought, since you wanted to speak to me alone—”
“That I planned to scold you.”
“Yes.”
“And I do. But not about the press coverage. What kind of police department are you running here, that they go after an innocent man who’s grieving the loss of his wife?”
“I’m not running it. I told you, it’s this police chief.” She paused, letting his words sink in. “Are you saying you don’t believe Griff killed Kate?”
“Never. Griffin Rothenberg would not harm a hair on Kate’s head. That boy saved her life a million times over. He’s a saint. I was angry with Griff’s father, and I let that come between us for a while, but no longer. I have complete faith in him, and I plan to stand by him through this mess.”
“Oh, I agree with you,” Jenny said. “And yet—” Jenny paused, not sure she liked the repercussions for her if Griff was innocent—if the focus of the press, and the police, shifted away from him.
“Speak up,” Keniston said.
“I’m not saying Griff is guilty. But there is evidence. Kate filed for divorce and disappeared. There’s blood all over Griff’s shirt, and Griff’s skin is under Kate’s fingernails. She just came into some money—well, you know about that.”
“Griff has perfectly good explanations for all of these things. I’m hiring a private detective to work on backing up Griff’s side of the story. What I care about is having my son-in-law left alone and my daughter buried in peace. That’s where you could do a better job, Jenny. Control the press. Call off the police. Put this nightmare to bed.”
“I’ll try my best, I promise,” she said, nodding.
Keniston looked at his watch. It was nearly time for the funeral to begin.
“Let’s get on with it, shall we,” he said, as if he was gaveling a business meeting to order rather than going to his daughter’s funeral.
By the time they were seated on the dais, the church was full, and a frenzied buzz of conversation echoed back from the vaulted ceiling. There must be over a thousand people here. Who were they? Strangers and pretenders, mostly, along with Eastman friends and relatives, rubberneckers from the town who’d never met Kate, and a load of Carlisle faculty. The press was cordoned off in the north transept, away from the main action, but constantly threatening to swamp the velvet ropes. As the organist began to play the Chopin funeral march and the sonorous notes rose high into the air, the congregation turned as one toward the door. Kate’s coffin was rich mahogany with polished brass fittings, piled high with white lilies, and borne by eight somber, dark-suited pallbearers. The three Eastman boys, four men whom Jenny didn’t recognize, and at the front right, Griff, with tears shining in his eyes. The flashbulbs sputtered like mad as the photographers went wild trying to get his picture. She could imagine the headlines: “Killer Husband Fakes Tears!”
Once the coffin had been placed before the dais, Griff took his seat beside Keniston as the chief mourner, and the chaplain rose to begin the service. The service lasted a very long time, and when finally it was Jenny’s turn, she walked to the podium feeling drained and emotionally depleted. She clutched her notes, but she couldn’t remember a word of her prepared speech, and the print on the page swam before her eyes. After a long, terrible pause, Jenny cast the notes aside and spoke from her heart. Her love for her friend came pouring out of her. Open on Kate, holding her father’s hand at her dying mother’s bedside. Then Kate with her bright hair on the wide green lawn of the Quad on their first day at Carlisle. Kate, always the belle, whether in jeans and sneakers, or a miniskirt and stilettos. Kate studying but not studying, goofing off, partying yet still getting As because she was so damn smart. (She’d wasted her talents, but Jenny never said that.) Kate holding court at a long table in the Commons, eating that nasty pink yogurt she loved that wasn’t even a real flavor, and talking about Freud so that even the dullest among them finally got it. Kate on her wedding day to Griff, full of hope. Kate, leading a life of glamour and luxury. Kate this past summer, returning to Belle River to start over after misfortune struck, in the bosom of old friends, holding her head up. Kate, taken from her loved ones much too soon. But take comfort, for she was at peace now, resting in the arms of God.
Tears rolled down Jenny’s cheeks, and there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. Jenny believed every word as she said it, even though she was simultaneously conscious of the flip side—the negative, the tragic, the ugly. But you didn’t speak ill of the dead, and after years in politics, Jenny believed in giving the audience what they wanted. A funeral was no place for the bitter truth. They would say a proper good-bye and pray for Kate at the hour of her death. Scandal would have to wait.
But it didn’t wait long. Griff and the other pallbearers got up to carry Kate’s coffin to the hearse outside, leaving Jenny to wheel Keniston down the handicapped-accessible ramp. They were only a minute behind the others. But by the time they got outside, the coffin was in the hearse, and Griff was spread-eagled against a police cruiser while Owen Rizzo slapped the cuffs on in full view of the national press.