Several days pass. Erin updates me regularly. There has been no word from Shafer. I wasn’t expecting anyone to walk into his offices and confess. Yoga, meditation, and long walks allow me to concentrate on the double homicides from years gone by. I work tirelessly with Emelina on the hundred and one little things that need to be done for the funerals. Today, the images of the skeletons on the dusty mansion floor give way to more acceptable ones. I stare at two polished silver urns in front of a decent gathering in Milford’s largest funeral home. Doc Cleary had given permission for the cremations after the skeletal remains of both Mr. and Mrs. Bidwell were identified by DNA.
Stands of flowers from the Chamber of Commerce and other civic organizations flank the urns. Their colors and scents make for a warm contrast to the gloom outside and the subdued drapery of the main viewing room. Soft organ music is piped in through speakers in each corner.
I sit next to Emelina, who is the only Bidwell family member present. Abe sits next to her on the other side, and my family sits behind us. She has outlived all her kin. Elderly Sorrento cousins from out of town and their children come to pay their respects to Antoinette, who has been missing from their lives for over half a century. It’s an act of familial obligation that Emelina appreciates.
Unmarried and childless, Emelina fawned over her niece, and she appreciates the outpouring of condolences on this damp, bone-chilling February day. Foul play was not suspected when Antoinette disappeared, but then everyone had thought Andrew skipped town when the police started looking at him as a suspect. It was then when people began wondering what happened to her. The sheer number of years of not hearing from either of them left a hole in Emelina’s heart. It is now filling with grief and maybe something else, but I can’t put my finger on it. I must admit that over the years I have known her, I was the one needing her wisdom and solace. My stepmother, Jean, and my father were there for me when it involved anything to do with my kids, but Emelina was there for all the issues of being a kindergarten teacher. As budgets shrunk and the state mandated all forms of testing, I needed her desperately as a sane sounding board.
I can only think of a handful of times when I could help her on some matter. Feisty and independent, Emelina Bidwell made it clear that she could take care of herself. She never seemed to age. Her indomitable spirit and infectious good cheer were the outpouring of her energy to live life even more fully after her retirement from teaching. Since discovering her niece’s death, I have seen Em’s pain transform her into a tired old woman whose better years are behind her. I am hoping that after today, we can help restore her liveliness and spunk.
We know most, if not all, the folks who have gathered. I am reminded that we didn’t get Benjamin Bloodstone’s order and I will talk to him after the service. We are a week away from the party and need to get all our supplies. He sits with Truscott Daniels and Michael Meade across the aisle and immediately behind the Sorrento family representatives.
The non-denominational speaker, a chaplain from the hospital, does an excellent job of bringing to life both Andrew and Antoinette. My eyes are drawn to their wedding album photos resting on pedestals in front of the urns as she speaks. The smiles of the happy couple remind me that they were lovers and real people, not just two skeletons found in a basement.
I half-expected to see Detective Shafer, but instead only Barney Williams sits to the rear. We make eye contact. Somebody should teach that man how to dress. I haven’t decided whether I want to tweak him about the index cards Vickie found in the moldy basement of Borough Hall. There will be other reasons to visit him, I am sure. I can be sure that the police investigation is plodding along at a far slower pace than ours. They have yet to visit the library for the yearbooks, Cole Directories, and newspaper reels. We have not heard through the small-town grapevine of any interviews being conducted. I am sure I will be the first to talk to many people still alive from the time the Bidwells disappeared.
Looking around, I doubt the killer or killers are here, but then again, I am reminded by the Nazi war criminals who were tracked down, living quiet unassuming lives decades after they stood erect in their black uniforms staring into the camera with soulless eyes. The attendees here today with their walkers and canes outnumber the able-bodied by a serious margin.
Meade and Daniels look uncomfortable sitting next to Bloodstone. Did he drag them here? There is no mention of strangulation or a shooting death, no salacious tidbits for the press to sensationalize Milford like in The Amityville Horror. The way they acted around Benjamin before we all sat down for the service reminds me of how one keeps an eye on the crazy uncle. It is like they are his minders. I’ve known him for all the time I have been in town, and he is one of the nicest people I know, always willing to help organize a charity for a good cause. He is more than the president of the Chamber of Commerce; he is their Goodwill ambassador. Through the decades, he could match Emelina for energy and optimism, but today he too looks drawn and tired. Is it the weather?
Benjamin is taking in every word of the eulogies. I watch his eyes focus on the wedding album photos. I quickly do the math and figure that he was younger than Andrew by a decade. Did he even know them? He would have been a late teenager or just out of college.
Ken sits to my other side. I squeeze his hand. He is here for me and Emelina. Since the two suits across the aisle got him kicked off the restoration project, he has decided to not be an impediment to my snooping around. I will remain careful discussing the case in front of him, but at least he is accepting of my role in helping Emelina get closure. His work has picked back up, and if he never walks back into the Devlin mansion again, he will be just fine with that. He knows the contractor that the new owner hired and figures that he will get a call to work on the upper floors after the owner sees the difference in quality and pricing.
There is no gathering planned for after the service, so the funeral director thanks everyone for attending and reminds everyone to sign the attendance book before departing. Emelina remains seated as the people say their goodbyes to her. Benjamin is behind her, studying the wedding photos with keen interest.
I make my way to him. “Did you know them, Benjamin?”
I startle him. He blinks away tears and says, “A little. I am sad for Emelina. To find out after all these years that they met such a terrible ending must be really hard for her.”
“She has her bad days and her good days,” I say.
Bloodstone doesn’t take his eyes off the photos. “I would see Antoinette at the library occasionally checking out books. She was such a dreamer. I knew Andrew from business associations at the Chamber and Rotary. I was very young then. I had gone away to college and graduate school. The town changed so much while I was away, but not everything.”
“How so?” I ask.
Glancing over at Daniels and Meade, he says. “Some people didn’t like change. They wanted things to stay the way it was. I was exposed to many different viewpoints while I was away at school, and coming home was like stepping back into the 1950s.”
“Was it the war?”
“Partly, but also the movement of jobs down South and to Mexico. My father railed at it all. I remember him rolling down the windows of his Cadillac to curse at the hippies when he veered the car towards them in town.” Ben shakes his head at the memories.
The crowd around Emelina thins out. My family stands in the back of the room waiting for me. Ben walks over to her and says, “Again, I am sorry for your loss. I will call upon you in the next couple of days if that is alright.” He touches her hand and glances once more at the photos before taking a different exit from the room.
“Are you going to be okay?” I ask Emelina.
She nods.
“I’ll be sure she gets home,” Abe says.
Em stands and shrugs off Abe’s hand on her shoulder, saying, “We have work to do. What time would be good for you, Gwendolyn?”
“I didn’t ask Benjamin about the cookie order. He seemed rather preoccupied.”
“I wasn’t talking about the cookies, dear. When can Abe and I sit down with you and Erin? We have unfinished business. I want to know what happened to them.” Her eyes blaze with a fierceness I’ve only seen a few times over the years when the school board tried to pull a fast one. The woman I had just observed sitting in exhausted grief was now buzzing with a determined energy. She points to the urns. “I won’t bury them until we know what happened. They will not be laid to rest until I know, Gwen. Do you understand that?”
“Let me check with Erin.” I walk quickly back to her and whisper in her ear. Erin holds up her hand to Emelina with four fingers.
Emelina nods and she looks at Abe, who nods without hesitation.
A centenarian, a burned-out stock trader turned yoga instructor, a home-schooling mom, and a former kindergarten teacher will continue working two murders from a long time ago. If I had any doubts about our success before I looked into her eyes, I do not now. Emelina’s diminutive figure is no indication of her out-sized determination not to rest until she finds out what happened. I stare at the photo of the young happy couple staring out of the back window of the car with the Just Married sign and tin cans hanging from the bumper. We are doing this for Emelina, and we are doing this for them.