It was only a couple days after the murder, and Santa Maria Island was about to kick off the first of several memorials to celebrate Bob’s life. He’d been an island savior and supporter, and most of the residents were just short of seeking canonization for their beloved Bobby.
Blanche arrived early at St. Joseph Church, ready to pay tribute to Bob and to keep a look out for his killer. Well, she wasn’t sure she’d see the killer, but her antennae were up. She was anxious and uncomfortable, the navy blue, polka-dot dress a bit scratchy and the high heel sandals a sort of torture.
She could see the top of Bob’s sister’s head and the Ex’s hat from where she sat in the back of the church. It was hot in there, and Bob was destined for colder climes. His family planned to take him back to Potosi, Michigan, although he’d been part of Santa Maria for more than thirty years. Most everyone on the island didn’t agree with the removal of Bob from the area, especially Liza, who carried on at the ceremony and could not be consoled. Bob probably wouldn’t have liked the idea of leaving Florida either. But the Ex and his sister—joined at the hip in quilting and in lamenting Bob’s adventurous ways—were the sober deciders. The two, and the body, would be on the first flight northward after the autopsy and memorials.
Bob’s sister was a timid woman but she stepped up and objected to an autopsy—“Bob is dead. R.I.P.,” she said. “What’s done is done.” The authorities had insisted. They had to “verify” the strangulation complete with broken neck—euphemism for murder—and that Bob had truly not suffered some other demise.
What? Accidental strangulation in the front seat of one’s car? Sometimes police work baffled Blanche. Well, most of the time it did.
The autopsy was necessary CYA (cover your ass). The women were all for propriety, and agreed. But they wanted to leave the island as soon as possible. They had never cared much for the “humidity,” or for Liza, whom they agreed was, indeed, a “presence.”
Blanche scanned the crowd. She wanted to honor Bob, and vindicate her suspicions. She was dying for the lanky guy with the slick hair and tattoos to show. She couldn’t pin a thing on him, but the needles in her brain would not go away. Sometimes the perpetrator returns to the scene. What prurience, what evil. What if…
It was a peculiar obsession, casing the church, searching faces, but that was just fine. She didn’t care how it looked. One could never be too watchful. The authorities should be searching the crowd for a suspect, just as she was doing. Duncan and the officers were there, but they didn’t appear to be attending in an official capacity. She’d overheard Duncan out front talking about a three-foot grouper he caught off Dave White’s charter. Now he seemed as out of place in that pew as a manatee in a bath tub. But he was here, and this time, she wouldn’t let him get too far.
She finally decided the guy from the white van was nowhere in sight and probably was not going to show. That loose end was still flapping in the unknown.
All the while she listened to the service, she hoped Bob could see—from wherever he hovered—the outfit Liza wore to his memorial service: He would have approved. He liked her “flare,” he called it, which at the ceremony included leopard high heels, a black lace sheath and veil to match, with feathers. The dangling glitter at her ears added to her sparkle, which could not be dimmed despite the pall of tragedy. Liza must have gone through a box of Kleenex.
The Blankenships, fortunately, were at a safe distance in the pews at the other side of the church. The Ex sat ramrod straight in the first row, a tiny black pill box atop her head. She hadn’t moved an inch since the ceremony began, no doubt anxious to get out of there and into the skies. With Bob aboard.
The word around town was that Sunny Sands would go on the market, and Liza would be left without a job. Bob and Liza had never gotten around to firming up the real estate partnership. Murder happens. But it was common knowledge that they were working on a relationship, both business and personal. They had planned to wait until Liza got her broker’s license.
Even so, Blanche wasn’t too worried about Liza. She surely would land on her own two high-heeled feet and shine in the real estate world on her own, with or without Sunny Sands.
Blanche just didn’t want Liza to leave. Liza was a friend, and an island leader. Enough was lost already, or slipping away. Liza had to stay. Liza had a knack. She could carry on. She would step into Bob’s shoes though the thought of it was amusing to Blanche. Liza’s triple-A, size six, wearing Bob’s enormous wing-tips. But, yes, Liza had to stay. It made Blanche cold to think it, but Liza might lure the rat out of the cracks, the one who did this awful thing to Bobby. The thought of catching this person, or persons, made Blanche grind her teeth with anticipation. Whoever did this to Bob was sure to circle around again. They would get him. Or them.
The investigation grew colder by the moment. She’d finally gotten Duncan on the phone, and he’d said he’d see her after the memorial service.
Blanche caught his eye and waved discreetly. He nodded. He’d taken his time answering Blanche’s calls, but he hadn’t missed Bob’s celebration—in fact, the church was bursting at the seams. They missed their “Bobby,” as the blue and white satin banner across a heart-shaped spray of red roses referred to him—compliments of the staff at Sunny Sands Realty (Liza).