Two

Fifteen Years Later

“Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower…”

Nicole Chandler stood motionless, staring at the coffin holding her father. Bright sunshine played over the stiff funeral flower arrangements she knew he would have hated. She’d told her mother he would have preferred a donation made to charity in lieu of flowers, but Phyllis Sloan had flatly refused. “It’s bad enough that he gave up his faith and made us all promise he wouldn’t have a religious funeral service,” she’d snapped. “I’m honoring that promise, but he didn’t say anything about not having flowers, so we’re haying them.”

Countless arrangements rested around the coffin. Clifton Sloan had a lot of friends in San Antonio. Most of them were at the funeral. But there were many others, people Nicole had never seen before, and she wondered how many had come out of curiosity just to view the funeral of a man who for no apparent reason had put a .38-caliber revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

A wave of queasiness swept over her, and she shut her eyes, still hearing the funeral director’s voice:

“We will grieve not, rather find

Strength in what remains behind…”

Oh, Dad, how could you do such a thing? she cried mentally. Why? The simple word had echoed through her head a thousand times since the Wednesday morning just three days ago when her mother had called her, her voice a stunned, thin monotone, saying that Clifton was hurt, he needed an ambulance, but she was feeling a bit faint from all the blood, would Nicole make the call?

Shrill with horror, Nicole had asked over and over how her father was hurt. Phyllis finally managed “shot” and “store” before she uttered a ragged moan and hung up. Nicole touched the reset button on the phone, then punched out 911 for help, certain that her father had been shot by someone trying to rob his music store downtown. Only later did she learn that sometime in the night he’d left his home, gone to his office in the back of the store, and killed himself. She couldn’t have been more surprised if someone had said the world was going to end in a week.

Pressure on her hand forced her to open her eyes again. She looked down at her nine-year-old daughter Shelley, whose clear forehead was furrowed in concern. “Okay?” she mouthed, her periwinkle blue eyes, so like Nicole’s, looking troubled and watery from unshed tears.

Nicole squeezed Shelley’s hand and gave her a slight smile. The girl had been so close to her grandfather. It was Clifton who’d always made her eyes light up with joy, who could make her laugh in spite of almost anything, who could bring perspective back to her young world when things went wrong, just as he had with Nicole. Phyllis, autocratic and critical, elicited the same response from Shelley she always had from Nicole—dutiful attempts at affection and an inevitable stiffening with repressed resentment when the complaints began in spite of all attempts to please.

“In the faith that looks through death,

In years that bring the philosophic mind.”

Am I supposed to find strength in years that bring the philosophic mind? Nicole wondered as the funeral director’s surprisingly eloquent voice concluded the stanza of Clifton’s favorite poem. Will I ever feel philosophic about my father killing himself without leaving so much as a brief good-bye note to me, especially now when I need him so much?

Immediately she felt ashamed. Obviously her father had been deeply troubled to do something so drastic, so seemingly irrational, and all she could think about was that he’d deserted her when her life was such a mess. Well, according to Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, wasn’t anger one of the stages of grief? Which one? The second or third? She was sure her husband, Roger, could tell her. Or rather, her soon-to-be ex-husband.

She glanced across her father’s coffin at Roger Chandler, standing tall and distinguished and properly solemn. He didn’t look much older than he had when they’d met at a graduate student party twelve years ago. She’d just begun work on a Master’s degree in English while he was finishing his doctoral dissertation in psychology. They’d married a year later. He’d always been so strong, so sure of himself, so certain of what she needed, and if his dominance had sometimes gotten on her nerves, she’d still been grateful she could always depend on him and his unwavering love.

Then, a few months ago, she’d noticed that he seemed to be away from home more than usual, spending time in his office at the university at night working on his book, or so he claimed. After three months of this diligent writing, one evening he’d lit a few candles around the living room, put on a Debussy CD, fixed her a snifter of very good brandy, and after some pointless small talk abruptly announced he’d fallen in love with another woman and wanted a divorce. Nicole had stared at him for approximately thirty seconds, then begun to giggle. The whole scene was so dramatically staged, Roger’s expression so lugubrious, his voice so tender and tragic, that the only thing penetrating her brain was how ludicrous they would appear to a sophisticated theater audience. She’d laughed until tears ran down her face, and Roger’s stiffening posture and his expression of bruised dignity mixed with fear that she was going into hysterics made her laugh even harder. It wasn’t until the next day that her tears no longer streamed from laughter.

At least he’d had the decency not to bring the little twit to the funeral, she thought. The girl, one of his students, was twenty years old, exactly half Roger’s age. Naturally all her friends assured her this was just a midlife crisis, that he’d never go through with the divorce but simply expend his passion in a rather embarrassing show, then slink home, repentant.

Nicole knew better. Roger’s need to be needed was overwhelming. He felt that she’d outgrown him, that the days were gone when she hung on his every word, that in a room full of people he was no longer the only person who existed for her. In a way, she felt rather sorry for him. For all Roger’s intelligence, he’d never realized that while for several years her dependence on him had been abnormally strong, and that she’d always cared deeply for him, he’d never been the center of her life as he thought.

He looked up. She saw the flash of guilt in his eyes before he managed a tight, awkward smile she knew was meant to be bracing. Nicole merely stared at him, and a moment later his gray gaze dropped. She supposed she could have been more gracious, but she was too shaken and heartsick to worry about Roger’s feelings right now.

Suddenly Nicole became aware of her mother moving forward to place a rose on Clifton’s coffin. Phyllis sniffled into a lace-edged handkerchief, but Nicole’s eyes were painfully dry as she laid a red rose atop the casket. She knew the grief would hit her swiftly and violently, but so far she’d been outwardly calm, her hurt throbbing inside her like a heartbeat, steady and invisible. She held Shelley’s hand while the girl reached forward with her own rose, murmuring, “Bye, Grandpa.”

The three of them stepped back, and others began moving as if a silent bell called them forth. Nicole couldn’t look at the many hands dropping already wilting flowers onto the coffin. Her father had always said funerals were ghoulish affairs. “They’re lovely ceremonies where people can say good-bye,” Phyllis had argued heatedly. “Say good-bye to what?” Clifton had shot back. “A corpse full of formaldehyde?”

Nicole knew the retort was calculated to get a reaction out of the high-strung, traditional Phyllis, and it always worked. Although she’d told her mother a hundred times that if she wouldn’t respond so fervently to Clifton’s teasing, he’d stop it, she nevertheless usually found herself smothering smiles as her mother let out a loud hiss of disgust and stomped out of the room, appalled by her husband’s apparent irreverence for all she considered sacred.

A slight breeze blew up, catching a lock of Nicole’s long hair and sweeping it across her face. She pushed it aside, looking beyond her father’s coffin to the grounds of the cemetery rolling beyond. It was February, an, unusually warm seventy-five degrees, and the breeze that blew her hair skimmed over the short green and brown grass and blew the small, many-limbed junipers abounding in the cemetery along with the masses of bright artificial flowers decorating the graves. When she and Roger had lived in Ohio, she’d noticed that only on Memorial Day did the Northerners decorate as abundantly as they did in San Antonio year-round.

Suddenly her gaze stopped at the figure of a man standing nearly a hundred feet beyond beside a sprawling Pinchot juniper. He was tall and slender, wearing jeans and a jacket, and beside him sat a dog—a Doberman, its black coat gleaming in contrast to its red collar, its ears clipped to alert points. Even from such a distance, the dog’s dark eyes seemed to meet and hold hers. The moment was almost hypnotic, as if the dog were trying desperately to convey a message. Abruptly the world narrowed for Nicole, becoming nothing but the sleek, shining canine. Then, slowly, the dog turned its narrow head, looking up at its master. Nicole’s own keen eyes followed. The tall man stood as still as the dog and gazed at her just as unflinchingly. For a few seconds she boldly stared at him in return. Then the outlines of his face sharpened in her vision. She could clearly see the line from his high cheekbones to his strong jaw, the hair as black as the dog’s, and the intense eyes that never left hers….

Nicole’s heart slammed against her ribs. She swayed, her vision darkening, cold beads of perspiration breaking out all over her face.

“Mommy? Mommy?” Shelley’s voice floated toward her from far away. “Mommy, are you okay?”

“Wha…” Nicole had the desire to speak, could even hear herself trying to mouth a word, but her voice seemed to be coming from underwater.

“Grandma, something’s wrong with Mommy!”

“What? What now?” Phyllis hissed, grabbing Nicole’s hand. “What’s wrong with you? Everyone’s looking.”

Slowly Nicole’s vision cleared as Phyllis’s voice hit her like a dash of icy water. The brightness of the day hurt her eyes. She blinked, frowning into the sun, her gaze seeking the tree. The man and the dog were gone.

Phyllis’s gaze searched her face. “You’re pale as a ghost. Are you going to faint?”

“No.” Nicole’s voice was thin and breathy.

“Well, get hold of yourself,” Phyllis ordered sotto voce. “All we need is for you to pass out and fall head first into the grave.”

Nicole looked at her mother in shock, then almost burst into one of her nervous laughing fits at her mother’s sadly preposterous response. At a time when Phyllis should be stricken that she’d lost her husband of thirty-six years, all she could think of were possibly embarrassing scenes. Suddenly, Nicole realized her mother was furious with Clifton, and she didn’t believe Phyllis was going through Kübler-Ross’s stage of grief labeled “Anger.” She was livid that Clifton had killed himself, had made people wonder about his sanity, had drawn unseemly speculation down on her family.

Again. First it had been she, Nicole, fifteen years ago, who’d been the talk of the town, the victim of a gang rape followed only weeks later by the suspicion that she’d instigated or at least inspired the double homicide of the rapists. Now the attention was focused on Clifton, the man who’d blown off his head in his own store. Sorry we keep embarrassing you, Mom, Nicole thought bitterly. Sorry Dad and I have compromised the pride of the daughter of General Ernest Hazelton.

“Are you all right?”

Beside Nicole stood Carmen Vega, her best friend since grade school. Carmen’s depthless dark eyes showed worry. “I’m fine.”

“What did you see?” Carmen asked quietly.

Nicole looked at her sharply. “I didn’t see anything. It’s just the occasion.”

Carmen’s eyes turned from worried to knowing. “No it isn’t. I was watching you. You saw something.”

When had she ever been able to hide anything from Carmen? She muttered, “Tell you later,” as Phyllis turned curious, reproving eyes on her.

“What are you two whispering about?”

“Nothing, Mom,” Nicole said tiredly. “I think we should be going back to the limousine.”

Shelley clutched her mother’s hand as they walked toward the long black car, her small face pale, her eyes sad. Safely inside the cool confines of the limousine, Nicole gave her a firm, encouraging hug.

“Well, that was a dreadful service,” Phyllis declared.

“I thought it was nice,” Nicole said.

“It wasn’t. And Shelley’s dress is inappropriate. Too short. Too gay. She looks like she’s going to a party, not like she’s in mourning.”

“Mom, this isn’t the nineteenth century when children went to funerals swathed in black.”

“She could have worn navy blue, not light blue.”

“Who cares what color it is?”

“I do.”

“You’re being absurd, Mother.”

Phyllis’s face assumed a devastated look. She sniffled into her handkerchief. “I know we don’t get along, Nicole, but do you have to attack me even on such a tragic day?”

Oh, God, Nicole thought, sighing as she leaned against the back of the seat, her head beginning to pound. Please let this awful afternoon be over soon. I need time to rest. I need time to think about Dad.

And I want to think about who I saw in the cemetery today, she added mentally with a shudder and a rush of chills down her arms as she pictured the lean, handsome face. Or who I thought I saw because it couldn’t have been…

“We’re home,” Phyllis announced. Nicole had been so distracted, she hadn’t even noticed the limousine turning onto their street. “Now comes the really hard part,” Phyllis went on. “Nicole, I hope you won’t desert me. I simply cannot handle all these people by myself.”

Nicole couldn’t keep the exasperation from her voice. “What on earth makes you think I’m going to desert you? I’ve done all I could to help—” She stopped short, seeing Shelley tense and Phyllis’s mouth begin to twitch again. Just be quiet and get through it, she told herself sternly.

When they stopped at the Sloan residence, Nicole emerged from the limousine, trying vainly to smooth the wrinkled skirt of the ill-fitting black linen dress she’d bought yesterday. Phyllis, however, looked trim and stylish in an expensive black silk shantung suit, her prematurely white hair tucked into its usual perfect French twist. Nicole remembered that even when she, Nicole, was a child, her mother had worn that gleaming, flawless hairstyle.

A few of Phyllis’s friends had skipped the funeral service so they could set out the food. The large house, decorated to perfection in cool, neutral tones with an occasional touch of aqua, looked pristine, not a knickknack out of place. Phyllis glanced around approvingly, then took her place at the door. “Nicole, you and Shelley stand beside me,” she ordered. “We must greet the mourners.”

What did you think we were going to do, Mom? Nicole thought sourly. Stampede to the table and begin gobbling food as fast as we can? But Phyllis wasn’t happy unless she was giving all the commands, even if they were unnecessary.

As they took their places inside the door, Nicole suddenly felt the desire to bolt and run down the street, never looking back. Her mind skittered, trying to recall how relatives of the deceased had acted at other funerals she’d attended. Sad, of course. Subdued. But what had they said? Her mind went blank.

And as soon as people began filing in the door, she realized why she, who was usually good with words, was nearly speechless. This wasn’t like any funeral she’d attended because it was for a man who had killed himself. There was something strikingly different about the funeral of a victim of suicide. Everyone seemed embarrassed because they too were at a loss for words. No one could say, “At least he’s out of his misery now,” because if he’d been in misery, no one seemed to know it. Two weeks ago when Nicole had last seen him, Clifton had been the essence of cheerfulness although he seemed a bit tired. No one could say, “It was God’s will,” because Clifton Sloan’s death was entirely of his own will. Most couldn’t even say, “He’s in a better place,” because they believed no one who committed suicide went to a better place.

And of course they were speculative. Had Phyllis or Nicole done something to drive him to this? Had Clifton suffered a financial disaster? What was the real story? What was the family hiding?

As a result, almost everyone merely muttered a strained, “I’m so terribly sorry,” to which the family said over and over, “Thank you.” As the line of mourners filing through the door was nearing its end, all Nicole could hear was Phyllis, then herself, then Shelley, each saying “Thank you,” in increasingly mechanical, scratchy voices.

Phyllis finally gave Nicole a gentle nudge in the ribs and said, “That’s everyone. Now circulate. And do not discuss the nature of your father’s death.” She then glided forward, handkerchief clutched in her right hand, face wan and a bit vacant. No one would dare ask her any details, Nicole thought. She looks as if she’d keel over if they did. But in reality, Phyllis Sloan was the strongest woman Nicole had ever known. Even at this moment, she could probably stand up to a prolonged police interrogation if she chose.

Shelley clutched her mother’s hand again, and they wandered into the living room. This was the room Phyllis insisted be kept perfect for company, but Nicole suddenly remembered childhood Christmases when the tree had stood in front of the window, and on Christmas morning brilliant paper and ribbons had lain all over the pale carpeting.

“Clifton, look what a mess she’s making,” Phyllis would fret. “Nicole, open the packages carefully. Don’t tear at the paper or squash the bows. We might be able to use some of the trimming next year.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Phyl,” Nicole’s father would laugh loudly, knowing how much Phyllis hated the shortening of her name. “We’re not headed for the poorhouse. I think we can afford new paper and bows next year. Nikki, rip and tear and throw the wrapping all you want.” So while Phyllis’s lips pressed tighter and tighter together, the child Nicole had done exactly as her father ordered while he recorded her every movement on film in the days before video cameras.

Although her father dominated her memories of those happy times, her mother was always there in the background, a nagging but stable force. Mom may have been difficult, Nicole mused, but at least she hadn’t deserted her family like Roger did. Such a thought would never have crossed her mind. In her annoying, idiosyncratic way, she tried to be the best wife and mother she could.

As if sensing her thoughts, Roger walked up. “How are you two doing?” he asked gently.

“We’re okay,” Nicole said, noting that he was wearing his glasses with the thin silver rims. He couldn’t wear contacts and when he really cared about his appearance, he wouldn’t wear the glasses, fearing they made him look older.

Roger glanced down at Shelley, a frown forming between his light brown eyebrows. “I didn’t think you’d be here, sweetheart.”

“It’s Grandpa’s funeral.”

Roger raised an eyebrow, then looked at Nicole. “I don’t approve of children attending funerals.”

Shelley, who’d grown hostile toward her father although Nicole had been careful never to criticize him, said hotly, “I wanted to come. I’m not a baby!” She looked up at Nicole. “Can I go get some cake now?”

Nicole nodded and as Shelley scampered away, Roger fixed Nicole with cool gray eyes. “You’re turning her against me.”

Nicole took a deep breath, trying to hold her temper. “I have bent over backward not to turn Shelley against you, but she’s not two years old. She’s aware it was your decision to move out of our home, and you’ve made no attempt to keep your relationship with that teenager a secret from her.”

“She is not a teenager,” Roger said stiffly. “She’s twenty.”

“Had a birthday, did she? Gee, pretty soon people will stop thinking she’s your daughter.”

“Please don’t get nasty at a time like this.”

Chastened, Nicole said quietly, “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Roger glanced over at her mother. “Phyllis seems to be holding her own.”

“She always does.”

“I think she’s mad as hell,” Roger stated. Nicole remained silent although for once she agreed with him. “Do you have any idea—”

“Why?” Nicole interrupted. “Why my father killed himself? No.”

Roger turned his searching gaze back to her. “We aren’t exactly close these days. How do I know you’re being honest with me?”

“Roger, I have never lied to you,” Nicole said tautly. “But even if I knew why Dad killed himself, why would I be obligated to tell you? It’s none of your business.”

“Yes, it is my business. Clifton was my daughter’s grandfather.”

“What are you hinting at?” Nicole flared. “Some kind of genetic weakness?”

He gave her a patient look. “Of course not. You know I believe we’re products of our environment. I’m worried because if there was some kind of serious trouble in the family that caused Clifton to do this, I should know. After all, Shelley adored him. She was around him too much these last few months. This whole mess has really rocked her young world.”

“I know of no serious trouble in the family except for you leaving me, which I hardly think would drive my father to suicide,” Nicole answered coldly. “And I am well aware of the effect this has had on Shelley. I’m doing everything I can to restore some normalcy and happiness in her life.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk about,” Roger said earnestly. “I think Shelley should spend the next few weeks with me.”

Nicole stared at him in disbelief. “Forget it.”

“Don’t give me one of your knee-jerk reactions. Think about how much sense it makes. You’re desolated by your father’s death. Your mood can’t be doing Shelley any good, and you’re not up to giving her the attention she needs.”

“I see. And living with you and your girlfriend will return her good spirits in no time?”

Roger’s jaw tightened. “Her name is Lisa Mervin. And we don’t live together.”

“She only spends all her nights at your apartment.” He opened his mouth to protest, but Nicole cut him off. “You haven’t been discreet, Roger. We’re professors at the same university. Do you think I’m not aware of your lifestyle? Lisa is your student, for God’s sake. Sleeping with a student on the sly is one thing. You’re openly living with her. Have you ever heard of dismissal due to moral turpitude? It can happen, especially when you don’t have tenure to protect you. At this rate you might not have a job next year.”

Roger’s face had paled, his gray eyes hardening. “All you’ve heard are rumors. Why don’t you let me worry about my job?”

“You misunderstand. I don’t care whether you lose your job over this girl or not. Shelley is another matter.”

“Nicole, you are not going to use my having a woman in my life to keep me away from my daughter.”

“I’m not trying to keep you away from her, but she isn’t going to stay with you and your little live-in nymphet. Besides, there’s no point in going into this now. We’ll work out visitation at the custody hearing.”

“Visitation? I think you mean joint custody.”

“Over my dead body!”

Carmen Vega appeared beside them. “Your voices are rising,” she said pleasantly. “Phyllis is going to glare a hole through each of you if you don’t quiet down.”

Roger’s nostrils flared slightly. He was ready for battle now, but Nicole’s energy immediately flagged when she realized the potential scene they were creating. “Carmen is right. A funeral isn’t the time for this discussion.”

Roger gave her a searing look. “I agree, but don’t think I intend to crawl away and let you have Shelley all to yourself. She’s my daughter, too, and I am not going to give her up. Don’t forget your past emotional problems, Nicole, or the police investigation you underwent. I’ve got a ton of ammunition on my side, too, and don’t think I won’t use it.”

He strode away, heading for the front door. Nicole sucked in her breath, feeling as if he’d just kicked her in the abdomen.

“Creep,” Carmen muttered.

“Sometimes I don’t know why I ever thought I loved him, and I could just slap myself for getting in a fight with him.” Nicole ran a hand across her forehead. “If the pressure inside my skull gets much worse, my eyeballs are going to pop out.”

Carmen gently took her arm. “Come in the kitchen with me.”

Nicole glanced around the room. Phyllis was talking with a good-looking, dark-haired man Nicole didn’t know. Shelley sat in a corner, nibbling on a piece of cake.

In the kitchen, Carmen poured ice water in a glass. “Where does you mother keep the aspirin?”

“Cabinet to the right of the sink.”

In a moment Carmen handed her the glass and a bottle of white pills. “Sit down at the table. Take two of these and about five deep breaths.”

Nicole obeyed, sinking down at the table and swallowing the aspirin. Then she leaned her head forward onto her folded arms. “I didn’t need a confrontation with Roger on top of everything else.”

“He probably started it,” Carmen said, sitting down beside her. “He’s the most self-centered person I’ve ever met, Nicole.”

“He wasn’t always that way, Carmen. You never got a chance to know him well, but a few years ago he was very protective and considerate.”

“Well, he isn’t anymore. In a few months you’ll see that the end of this marriage is one of the best things that’s ever happened to you.”

“I already see it,” Nicole said wearily. “I’m not saying the whole thing isn’t upsetting and disruptive, but I know eventually I’ll be a much happier person because of the divorce. It’s Shelley I worry about.”

“Shelley is a strong little girl, just like her mother. She’ll be fine.”

Nicole smiled wanly. “Do you really think I’m strong?”

“I’ve known you since you were six.” Carmen grinned. “I’ll never forget the day we were on the playground and that terrible big bully José was pulling my braids. I was flailing around, helpless and squealing. The other kids were laughing. Then you marched up, at least two inches shorter and fifteen pounds lighter than José, and kicked him with all your might in the knee. He howled like a baby all the way back into the school building.”

“And I got detention for a week.”

“And the undying respect of everyone else in the first grade he’d bullied. Nearly twenty-eight years ago,” Carmen said, shaking her head slowly in amazement. “Sometimes I still feel like that little girl on the playground.”

“I don’t feel like that fiery-eyed little kid who rescued you. I feel like a rag doll who lost all her stuffing. Carmen, it’s so strange. I’m numb. I haven’t even cried over Dad. Not once.”

“You’re in shock. I was the same after my baby boy died. Be grateful. In a couple of days, you’ll feel awful.” Carmen’s long curly black hair had been brushed into an unnaturally smooth style. She ran her hands through it, shaking loose some of the curl. “What caused your face to turn chalk-white at the cemetery?”

Nicole wiped at a drop of water running down the side of her glass. “I saw a man and a dog standing on a slope watching the funeral.”

“I saw them, too.”

“You did?”

“Yes. It was that student of yours, Miguel something.”

“Miguel Perez? No, Carmen, it wasn’t.”

“Well, I only met him once at your Christmas party. Maybe not. Who did you think it was?”

“Carmen, did you really look at the man? Didn’t he remind you of someone?”

Carmen’s lovely tanned face grew bewildered. “I told you—Miguel.”

“No, Carmen, it looked like Paul.”

“Paul who?” Carmen’s eyes widened. “Paul Dominic?” Nicole nodded. “That’s impossible! He died in a car wreck fourteen years ago.”

“Did he? After the explosion there wasn’t enough of the body left to make a positive identification. They didn’t do DNA testing back then.”

Carmen couldn’t hide the astonishment in her eyes before her gaze dropped and she bit her full lower lip the way she did when she was troubled. Finally she said, “Nicole, the last few months have been so hard on you. First the move back to San Antonio with all its bad memories. I know you would never have come except to please Roger. Then he left you. And now your father…Well, you can’t be thinking too clearly right now.”

“You think I’m hallucinating?” Nicole asked, stung.

“No. I saw the man, too. I don’t remember Paul as vividly as you do, but the height, the slimness, the black hair…Under the circumstances, being so tired and overwhelmed, I might have thought the same thing for a moment if I were you.”

“But the way he was looking at me…”

“The way he was looking at you?” Carmen reached out and put her strong, long-fingered hand on Nicole’s. “He was so far away. How can you be sure of exactly how this man was looking at you?”

“But I am sure. His gaze was so intense…”

“Nicole, you’re a beautiful woman. Lots of men look at you intensely.”

“But I thought…I was almost sure…” Nicole trailed off, embarrassed, knowing how unbelievable her story sounded. And thinking back on the incident, she wasn’t certain why she’d believed the man in the cemetery was Paul Dominic just because he resembled him. Was it because she’d never been able to accept the death of a man she’d once worshiped just as she couldn’t accept her father’s?

“Are you all right?”

“I guess. Nerves, grief, shock. This hasn’t been one of my better weeks.” Anxious to change the subject, she asked, “Where are Bobby and Jill?”

“Bobby’s minding the store and waiting for Jill to come home from a friend’s birthday party.”

“I’m glad you didn’t make her come. I agree with Roger that funerals are no place for children, but Shelley couldn’t very well be absent from her grandfather’s, although I would have saved her the ordeal if I could.” Nicole glanced at her watch. “We’ve been in here fifteen minutes. Mother will be annoyed.”

“Your mother is always annoyed about something, so what difference does it make?” Carmen giggled. Nicole joined her, knowing no one but Carmen could have made her laugh even briefly today.

When they entered the living room, Phyllis turned her head away from Kay Holland, Clifton’s longtime assistant at the store, and shot a burning look at Nicole to let her know her prolonged absence had been noted. At the moment, Nicole didn’t care. Her eyes scanned the room. It was only half as full as when she’d gone to the kitchen. People obviously had no desire to linger and visit at this particular house.

“Are you feeling better, Mrs. Chandler?”

Nicole turned to see the dark-haired man her mother had been talking to earlier when Carmen led her off to the kitchen for aspirin.

“I’m feeling much better. Just a headache.”

He smiled easily. “A day like this could certainly give you one, although I have to congratulate you on the stamina you’ve shown. Both you and your mother, today at the funeral and Wednesday morning.”

Wednesday morning when Clifton Sloan had been found dead in his office. Nicole looked at him inquiringly. “You’ll have to forgive me. You look so familiar, but I can’t place where we’ve met.”

“I’m Raymond DeSoto. I was one of the detectives called to the scene of your father’s death.”

Nicole’s mind flashed pictures. A black-haired man wearing clear plastic gloves bending over her father’s body. His quick, nodding acknowledgment of her and her mother. His quiet instructions to uniformed officers and what she supposed were forensics people, and later the scalding look he’d thrown his older, black partner who questioned Phyllis and Nicole stridently.

“Detective—”

“Actually, it’s Sergeant.”

“Sergeant DeSoto, I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. You were very kind to my mother and me that day. I appreciate it. Unfortunately, I was so shaken that the whole scene seems like a kaleidoscope in my memory.”

“That’s understandable.”

Nicole noticed the strong lines of his square face, the large, warm dark eyes, the thickness of his black hair. She guessed him to be in his very early thirties and noticed he didn’t wear a wedding ring. Despite her quick appraisal, she was not looking at him as a potential romantic interest. She had always been observant. At one time the police had congratulated her for being such a good witness. Her mind veered from the dangerous memory.

“I thought the service was very dignified,” DeSoto was saying. “I did notice, though, that it wasn’t religious.”

“My father was reared a Catholic, but he stopped going to church many years ago. He claimed to be an agnostic.”

“Claimed?”

Nicole knew the question wasn’t as nonchalant as it sounded. DeSoto was interested in learning more about Clifton Sloan, but she answered anyway. “Every once in a while Dad said something that made me think he firmly believed in a supreme being, but maybe he was only echoing phrases he’d heard all his life, not expressing his true feelings.”

“I see,” DeSoto said offhandedly. “Well, I suppose in adulthood we all reexamine childhood beliefs and feelings, but I don’t know how often we really change, not deep down anyway. I’ve heard cold-blooded killers suddenly start begging for God or their mothers when they know there’s no way out for them.”

A tremor passed through Nicole, and he must have seen it. “Sorry again, Mrs. Chandler. Sometimes I think I’m only fit to talk to other cops.”

“It’s all right, really. I was just thinking about how easy it is for some people to kill.” She paused, then asked a trifle nervously, “Sergeant DeSoto, I don’t mean to make you feel unwelcome, but is there a reason you’re attending this funeral? I mean, you are convinced my father’s death was a suicide, aren’t you? Because I know…I mean I’ve read…that sometimes policemen come to the funerals of murder victims because they think the killer might be there. I believe the theory is that the killer likes to see all the grief he’s caused.”

DeSoto smiled reassuringly, showing even white teeth. “Yes, sometimes that’s true. But not in this case. I’m here because I used to have an interest in music. I visited your father’s store quite a few times. He was always very kind and patient with me, although it was obvious I had no talent and no money to buy any of the expensive instruments he handled.”

Nicole relaxed and smiled. “Dad cared more about a person’s passion for music than their actual talent,” she said, then abruptly pictured a dark-haired man with mesmerizing hazel eyes talking earnestly about her feeling for music, about how rapt her seven-year-old face had grown when she was trying to play “Down in the Valley” on a grand piano. “Would you like something to eat?” she said in a brisk, loud voice unlike her own. “More coffee? I see that you’ve finished yours.”

Sergeant DeSoto glanced at his empty cup, frowning slightly, obviously sensitive to her sudden change in mood. “I’ve had plenty of coffee, thank you. I think I should be on my way. I stayed longer than I meant to.”

From across the room Nicole caught Phyllis’s hard stare. She swiftly made her way to them. “I hope you two aren’t discussing details of dear Clifton’s death.” Her tone was sad but with a trace of steel underneath. “It’s all so morbid, you know, Sergeant DeSoto. I don’t like for Nicole to get more upset than she already is.”

Nicole resisted rolling her eyes. The idea that her mother’s prime concern at the moment was Nicole’s emotional state was nonsense. Phyllis was only worried that they were discussing the suicide. She seemed to believe that if they didn’t talk about the specifics of Clifton’s death, the cause would turn into a dignified heart attack.

“Your daughter was just offering me some more coffee,” Sergeant DeSoto said smoothly, “but I’m afraid I must get back to work.”

Phyllis smiled graciously. “We certainly understand. We also appreciate your attending die service. That was really above and beyond the call of duty. But then you knew my husband slightly, didn’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am, although I hadn’t seen him for years—”

“Oh, everyone is so busy these days,” Phyllis rattled on, steering him unobtrusively though expertly toward the front door. “Life used to be so much slower, more relaxed…”

Nicole hung back, listening to her mother. No doubt Phyllis had been deeply distressed to see the man at the funeral. She was afraid other people would know DeSoto was a policeman and his presence might stir up even more curiosity and discussion.

After everyone else had left, Carmen and Kay Holland stayed to help clear away the food. Nicole had always liked her father’s thin, birdlike assistant, Kay. She remembered her as a young, energetic woman with surprisingly dreamy violet eyes behind thick glasses. The woman had never married, seemingly content with her job, the piano lessons she gave part-time, and her cats. But when Nicole returned to San Antonio in August, she’d been amazed at how much Kay had aged since she’d seen her a year before. Kay couldn’t be more than in her late forties but she looked closer to sixty, her slenderness turned to boniness, her skin pale and waxy.

Kay insisted that Phyllis and Nicole relax on the couch while she and Carmen did most of the work. Within an hour all the food had been put away and Kay placed a slender book from the funeral home on the sideboard listing the dish, contents, and giver so Phyllis could write thank-you notes.

“Kay, you’re a gem,” Phyllis said with a genuine smile. “Clifton always depended on you so much. No wonder. You’re the most efficient person I know.”

Kay looked pleased in spite of the deep lines of sadness etched on her face. “Anything I can do to help, Mrs. Sloan. All you have to do is let me know.”

Phyllis stood. “Kay, dear, you’ve worked so hard you look absolutely exhausted. I want you go home and rest.”

“All right, Mrs. Sloan,” Kay said, flashing an entreating look at Nicole.

“After all, we can’t have you breaking down over this thing.”

Another meaningful look at Nicole from Kay. Suddenly Nicole realized Kay wanted a private word with her, although Phyllis was leading her relentlessly toward the door. Luckily, at that moment Shelley called for her grandmother from the kitchen.

“Mom, you go see what Shelley wants,” Nicole said quickly. “I’ll walk Kay to the door.”

Phyllis hesitated, clearly as surprised by her granddaughter’s calls as Nicole was, then she smiled ruefully. “I hope she hasn’t spilled something. Kay, I’ll speak with you soon, and thank you again.”

As soon as she’d left the room, Kay took Nicole’s arm in her thin, cold hands. “I wanted a moment alone with you.”

“What is it, Kay?”

“I’ve never had a chance to talk with you since your father’s…death.” She looked down, blinking back the tears welling in her eyes. “You know how very sorry I am.”

“Of course, Kay. It’s not what you wanted to talk to me about, though.”

“No. I don’t mean to be mysterious, but I don’t feel…well…free to talk here. I wouldn’t want your mother to overhear. The store will be closed tomorrow, but I’ll be there cleaning out Mr. Sloan’s desk. Do you think you could stop by?”

Startled, Nicole realized Kay knew something about Clifton Sloan’s death. “Kay, why don’t you call me tonight—” She broke off, hearing Phyllis talking to Shelley as they passed through the dining room, headed for the living room. “All right,” Nicole murmured. “Shelley is supposed to spend tomorrow with her father, so I’ll come by as soon as he’s picked her up.”

Kay nodded vigorously as Phyllis entered the room. “Shelley wanted me to show her one of her great-grandmother’s crystal birds, now of all times. Nicole, you’re not detaining Kay, are you? She looks tired enough to drop.”

“I was only giving my regrets to Nikki,” Kay said, using Clifton’s nickname for his daughter. “I am tired. I’ll be on my way now, but remember what I said. I’m on twenty-four-hour call if you need me.”

“I’ll remember,” Phyllis said. “Good-bye, Kay.”

Nicole and Kay walked to the front door in silence. Before Kay stepped out the door, she patted Nicole’s arm and muttered, “Tomorrow. Please.”

Nicole nodded and watched as the stick-thin figure meandered down the front walk. She used to stride, Nicole thought. She used to seem as if she had the energy of ten people contained in that small body.

As Kay climbed into her five-year-old Chevrolet, Nicole looked beyond her. At first she merely glanced at the dog sitting on the other side of the street. Then her eyes narrowed. The dog was a large, gleaming black Doberman with a red collar. This close she could even see a small gold medallion hanging from the collar. The dog sat perfectly still, its dark eyes meeting hers with that strange look of knowledge she’d seen before. But this time it was alone. At least it appeared to be alone. Nicole had the odd feeling that its master was not far away. Her gaze remained locked with the dog’s while Kay pulled away from the curb. Nicole stepped out on the porch. “Come here, dog,” she said softly, then more loudly, “Come to me!”

The dog moved slightly, leaning forward. She had the distinct impression that it wanted to come to her. Slowly she sauntered down the front walk, smiling and holding out her hand in a gesture of friendship. She’d always had a way with dogs, a trait that drove Phyllis wild when she constantly brought home strays. Shelley had the same gift.

“Come here, please,” she repeated to the beautiful dog. “I won’t hurt you.”

The dog stood. It was even bigger than she’d realized and its stance demonstrated excellent breeding. It took a step toward her. Suddenly high heels clicked on the porch behind her and Phyllis demanded, “What in the world are you doing? Trying to drag another dog home? Honestly, don’t you think you’re getting a little old for this, Nicole?”

Instantly the dog’s head snapped to the right. As if responding to a command, it bolted, disappearing behind the house across the street. Furious, Nicole turned on her mother. “Did you have to come barging out right at that moment?”

Phyllis glared at her in outrage as Carmen appeared by her side. “What was it?” she asked anxiously.

Nicole looked at her solemnly. “Carmen, the dog we saw at the cemetery was here.”

“The dog from the cemetery?” Carmen repeated doubtfully.

“Yes. And I think its master was here, too.”