The next morning Tyrell did not want to get out of bed. When the alarm went off he was deep asleep, dreaming about a river, and a boat that was caught in some tangled branches at the edge. He was trying to set the boat free, and the sun was warm on his back through the trees. When the buzzer sounded, and he opened one eye to look out at the gray day, he gave some serious thought to just turning over. The habit of being dutiful forced him to his feet and he dressed and ate the breakfast his grandmother had fixed for him in a fog. He was halfway to the station house when he remembered his promise to Dena Russell. He considered letting it ride, but the memory of her sitting there, with that heart-shaped little face and that big belly made him feel guilty again. So he detoured away from the center of town and headed for the rural area of Monroe.
It was drizzling when Tyrell pulled up on the gravel drive next to the Riley farm. He would speak to Riley, and get it over with. He pounded on the back door of the house and heard a cranky voice from inside telling him to wait. The door opened and Boots stood there, bleary-eyed and still in his stocking feet. His scowling, unshaven face broke into a boyish smile at the sight of Tyrell.
‘Hey man,’ he said. ‘What are you doing waking me up?’
‘Did I wake you?’ Tyrell asked, surprised.
Brian waved at him cheerfully. ‘Nah, I’m eatin’ breakfast. Come on in.’
Tyrell followed him into the ranch house. The house smelled of stale beer, and there was an empty Johnny Walker bottle lying on its side on the plaid couch. Tyrell remembered the beer smell from his last visit here – the night of the 911 call. Tyrell followed Brian through the house. The TV was on in the living room, some morning news show playing, but the only light came from the kitchen. The house was visibly messier than it had been the other night. The woman’s touch was definitely absent.
Newspapers were piled up, the garbage can was overflowing, and there was a pile of dishes in the sink. In spite of himself, Tyrell found himself thinking about Tanya Smith, Jennifer’s sister. Was this the house where she died? Slipped in the bathroom and cracked her skull. Slipped. Fell.
There was a half-eaten bowl of cereal on the table, and a box of Pop-Tarts. Brian noticed the expression of disapproval on Tyrell’s face and waved his hand around dismissively. ‘The place is a mess. I’m not used to being a bachelor again,’ he said. ‘You married?’
Tyrell shook his head and took the seat that Brian indicated. ‘No.’
‘How’d you escape it all this time?’ Brian asked with a dimpled smile. ‘Handsome guy like you.’
‘I was in the Marines, up till two years ago,’ said Tyrell.
Brian nodded. ‘So that’s why I haven’t seen you around all these years. I figured I would have run into you one way or another by now. You hungry, man?’ Brian asked, as he resumed his seat behind his cereal bowl.
‘No, you go ahead, Boots. My old granny got up with me this morning. Made me eggs.’
Brian hooted as he picked up his spoon. ‘Boots. Shit, man. Nobody’s called me Boots in ten years.’ He began to dig into his cereal. He was pale, and his eyes were red-rimmed. ‘Well, Boots is all right. But don’t say eggs, man. I don’t even want to think about eggs.’
Tyrell smiled, knowing the feeling. ‘Tough night,’ he said.
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Brian. He peered at his former teammate through bloodshot eyes. ‘You mean to tell me you live with your granny?’
Tyrell smiled self-consciously. ‘I finally left the service to help her out with my younger brother. He’s a handful.’
‘You lived with her back in high school,’ said Brian.
‘You got a good memory,’ said Tyrell.
‘Well, I remember some things,’ said Brian, pointing a milk-edged spoon at him. ‘I remember you were a pretty fair wide receiver. I remember you and I stood up to a bunch of thugs in the parking lot one Saturday.’
Tyrell shifted uneasily in his seat. Somehow, even though it was his most vivid memory of their acquaintance, he didn’t like Boots being the one to bring it up. It made him feel vaguely … leaned on. ‘I remember that too,’ he said.
‘So what brings you out here,’ Brian said casually.
Tyrell frowned. ‘Business.’
‘Oh?’ said Brian innocently.
‘Your girlfriend called us last night.’
Brian pushed his bowl away and leaned back in his chair. He ran a hand through his curly black hair and sighed. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking, man. I’ve just been so pissed off at her.’
‘Well, she’s getting plenty pissed off at you. You got to back off, man. They’ve got laws against this sort of thing. Stalking. Harassment.’
Brian looked pained. ‘You’re right. I know it. I just, I just …’ He threw his hands out and looked helplessly around the messy kitchen. ‘I just can’t believe what she’s doing to me.’
In spite of himself, Tyrell had a sudden image of Dena, cowering in the bathroom the night of the 911 call, with that bruise darkening on her pale face. ‘What do you expect? You hit her, man. You hit a pregnant woman right in the face.’
‘I know. I’m ashamed of that. I had too much to drink. But man, what would you do if you found out your woman was cheating on you? I’m not even sure anymore that that baby is mine. And then, she moves in with him, right under my nose, all the time telling me that she’s not sleeping with him. It’s … it’s killing me, you know.’ Brian’s voice broke, and Tyrell was embarrassed to see tears in the other man’s eyes.
‘She has her own place, you know,’ Tyrell said gently. ‘She’s not living in his apartment. She lives upstairs from him.’
‘Right. And that means they’re not fucking,’ Brian said hopelessly.
‘Look, I know it’s not easy, man,’ Tyrell said. ‘But, I’m telling you that you can’t be breaking into her house and sending her a bag of rats or you’re going to find yourself in a world of shit.’
‘I didn’t mean anything by it,’ Brian protested. ‘I meant it as kind of a joke.’
Tyrell was trying to be sympathetic but this word jarred him. ‘A joke?’ he repeated.
‘Not like a funny joke,’ Brian said quickly. ‘More like … I don’t know. I just wanted to get her attention. She’s treating me like some kind of a … a rat. She’s making me feel so low. I can’t reason with her. She doesn’t listen.’
‘Look man, I realize you’re hurting. But you can’t do this any more. The chief told you. Now I’m telling you. Whether she’s involved with this other guy or not, she’s breaking it off with you. Breaking up is tough, everybody knows, but you got to accept it. Get on with your life.’
‘She doesn’t mean it,’ said Brian.
Once again, Tyrell found himself imagining Tanya Smith. He pictured her as having long auburn hair, just like her sister, Jennifer. He wondered if she had been trying to break it off with Brian Riley too.
‘She does mean it,’ he snapped, more angrily than he had intended. ‘You’ve got to get that through your head.’
‘You’re right,’ said Brian miserably. ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking straight.’
Tyrell stood up, towering over the man at the table. ‘Now look, I’m warning you. Cool it. Do you understand? Just back off.’
Brian looked up at him and nodded. He looked like a child, Tyrell thought, with his messy hair, a spoonful of Cheerios halfway to his mouth, tears standing in his eyes. Just like a little wounded boy.
The McGrath-Lewin Funeral Home sat on top of a slight rise just three blocks out of the center of Monroe. It was a big, ungainly house, renovated within the last twenty years for the express purpose of catering to the bereaved. Thus, it was a house with four living rooms of varying sizes, although it was a rare and bleak day in Monroe when all the rooms were in use at once.
On this drizzly gray morning, Terry McGrath, the funeral director, had taken the drastic step of hiring a valet for the parking lot. This young man, in an ill-fitting navy blue suit and an umbrella, was rushing around trying to keep up with the crush of arriving cars. Lou Potter waved off his attentions, pointing to his ID stuffed under the visor on the driver’s side of his sedan. Then he pulled up and parked it on the far side of Terry McGrath’s car.
Lou got out of the car and adjusted his trench coat over his sports jacket and his slacks. He had thought about wearing his uniform, but he was afraid it might upset the family. Besides, he didn’t want to stick out as a policeman. He wanted to be able to observe the people here discreetly. A solemn-faced man whom he did not recognize opened the door to the funeral home for him and stood back saying, ‘Hi, Chief.’ So much for discretion, Lou thought.
He nodded, and rubbed his palms together nervously. Taking a deep breath, he walked up the wheelchair ramp and into the vestibule. ‘Will you sign the guest book, please, for the family,’ asked another, dark-suited employee of McGrath’s.
Lou took the pen and signed, glancing at the other names there. Then he handed back the pen and looked around, taking in the scene.
Lou had been to a lot of funerals in his life, many of them here at McGrath’s. He had buried Hattie from here two years ago. The painful memories were like a corkscrew in his chest. But, he reminded himself, most of the funerals he’d attended were for the elderly parents of friends, or relatives who had passed on. Lately a few had been for his contemporaries, men in their sixties. But there was a vast difference between occasions like that, and the one he was present at today. There were always more than enough seats to go around when the dear departed was old. Although there were always tears, there were also frequent smiles, swapped stories, and exclamations of surprise at the funeral of one who had enjoyed a long life, well lived. There was a certain relaxed atmosphere at the services for the very old, especially after long illnesses. People gathered to say goodbye, but also to share in the relief of pain ended. People took solace in the hope that married partners, often long separated, were now together in the next life, old friends reunited in a better place. People often wore soft colors and cheerful patterns, as if they were off to an Easter service at church.
The crush of people here today, however, was in an entirely different mood. There were angry murmurs, and anguish was thick in the atmosphere. The sounds of sobs, not sniffling, rent the air as Lou pressed his way into the crowded salon where Jennifer Hubbell was laid out. Dark clothes and black veils abounded in the mint-colored room with its statuary niches, and boxes of Kleenex were placed on every end table. Every seat was taken, and people stood, lining the walls, speaking in low voices and staring in fascinated horror at the sight of a dazed, exhausted-looking Ron Hubbell, seated beside a closed casket banked by an unruly riot of floral arrangements. A heart-breaking wedding picture of Jennifer, her hair sprinkled with white flowers, her smile a blaze of happiness, was propped atop the coffin.
At the front of the room, Ron’s parents huddled together on a damask-covered settee, sniffling into handkerchiefs. Ron sat alone, seemingly oblivious to the other mourners, and stared at the coffin which held the body of his wife. When someone bent over to speak to him, or squeeze his arm, he would whisper a reply, but his gaze never wavered from the bier. Occasionally, he would reach up and touch the shining, wooden casket. The terrible look in his eyes made Lou feel like a voyeur for just glancing at him. As he looked around the room, studying the faces, Jake Smith came up to him and began to pump his hand.
‘Lou,’ he said urgently, ‘do you have news for us?’
‘Well, we still have a lot of questions,’ he said, being deliberately vague. ‘I hoped I might be able to talk to some people here. If you could introduce me. I know it’s a terrible time …’
‘No problem,’ said Jake. ‘I need something to do. I can’t just sit and look at her.’
Lou knew Jake was referring to his daughter’s coffin. Years of running the hotel made introductions and social patter as natural as breathing to Jake Smith. He began to introduce Lou to people in a low voice.
‘This is Susan … what is your name now, dear? Hammersmith. She was a friend of Jennifer’s in high school.
‘I hadn’t seen her since she got back,’ Susan explained, dabbing at her eyes. ‘I’ve been away. But we often got together over the years, when she’d come home in the summer, or at the holidays.’
Lou asked a few questions, and Jake moved on resolutely through the crowd, making introductions and remembering names as if this weren’t the worst day of his life.
‘Over there,’ said Jake, pointing across a row of heads, ‘is Mayor Elwell. You know him, obviously. And beside him, sitting by herself there, is Dena Russell. You remember, Jennifer’s friend that was staying at their house.’
As if she had heard her name, Dena looked up and met the chief’s critical gaze. Lou noted that her eyes were red-rimmed, and she had a wad of Kleenex crushed in her hand which she used to dab at her tears. Although the chief disliked Dena, without even knowing her, for having driven Brian to such despair, he could, at least, see that she was genuinely stricken.
‘And this is Laura Mallory. And her fiancé, Skip Lanman,’ Jake continued. ‘Laura and Jennifer were best friends in Boston. They flew in last night.’
Lou looked into the puffy, reddened eyes of a pretty woman with long, ringleted dark hair and a splotchy complexion. The fiancé stood stoically by, clutching a handful of Kleenex. ‘I’m so sorry,’ Lou was moved to say by the sight of the woman’s misery.
‘Thank you,’ she said politely.
‘Cold up there in Boston?’ Lou asked, trying to make small talk.
‘Laura came in from Chicago, actually,’ said the fiancé, trying to spare her the need to reply. ‘She was out there on … uh … business. I came down from Boston. It is a little chillier there than here actually.’
‘Who would do this?’ Laura wailed, oblivious to their stilted conversation. ‘Jennifer was … the best …’ Her words ended in a squeak as fresh tears overflowed.
‘Miss Mallory, maybe you can help us with our inquiries. Did Jennifer have any enemies that you knew of?’
‘Oh, Chief, you don’t know how crazy that sounds when you talk about Jennifer.’
‘Were there any problems in the marriage, anything she might have only told a best friend?’ he asked Jennifer’s distraught friend. ‘Any indication that either one of them might have been … well, you know, seeing someone else?’
Laura Mallory seemed to understand the seriousness of the question, and she gave the chief as level a gaze as she could muster. ‘I swear to you, Chief Potter. There was nothing. Ron adores her. They are the happiest couple … Were,’ she added in a whisper.
‘What about Ron, Mr Lanman? Was he in the habit of confiding in you? Did he ever mention any … suspicions he had about Jennifer? Any … evidence of infidelity?’
Skip Lanman was a frail-looking man, but his answer was authoritative. ‘Infidelity, absolutely not. That’s outrageous. It’s not even … it’s unthinkable.’
‘Don’t be angry, sir,’ Lou said. ‘We have to consider every possibility.’
Laura looked over at Ron Hubbell, paralyzed beside his wife’s casket. ‘Can you honestly look at that man and think he could be responsible …?’
Skip put his arm around her as she began to sob.
‘It’s awful,’ Lou agreed. ‘But we need to find out who was responsible. If either of you thinks of anything …’
Laura rubbed her forehead as if she had a headache. ‘You’ll have to excuse us, Chief. I took a Valium before I came and it’s hard to think …’
‘I understand,’ Lou said. ‘But if you could try to remember. Anything Jennifer might have told you that could be important …’
‘We will. I promise you. But right now …’ She shook her head, unable to say more, pressing the soggy hanky to her streaming eyes.
Lou patted her gently on the arm. ‘You can call me at this number any time,’ he said, handing her a card. He left her, and continued to move through the crowd. Most of the people there were friends of Jake Smith, here to console the grieving father in his darkest hour. But there were a lot of young people too. He recognized employees from the hotel, and Jake introduced him to three young people who had been in Jennifer’s Sunday School class some fifteen years ago, and felt they had to come. Lou asked Jake about one woman, a bohemian-looking person with gigantic dangly earrings. Jake drew a blank, but she turned out to be Jennifer’s Lamaze instructor. It was overwhelming, the number of people touched by the fate of this young woman, who had grown up here, and come home, only to meet this horrible death.
The minister from the Presbyterian Church stepped up to the podium at the front of the overflowing chapel and cleared his throat. The noise died down to a murmur, punctuated by gasps and the groans of those too overcome to respond to the call to order. The minister began to speak, and Lou looked around the room, seeking the eye averted from the gospel readings. Most people were either weeping with their heads bowed, or listening intently. Everyone around him seemed to be crushing in closer for the minister’s words of comfort and warning, although this was one of those cases where only the deeply faithful were going to find solace in their prayers. For the rest, there was pity and fear.
Lou waited through the first prayer and then began discreetly elbowing his way to the door. He found himself thinking about his granddaughter’s birthday party this afternoon. Those little kids’ parties sometimes gave him a headache, and he avoided them, but today he was going to make time to go. It would be like an antidote to the misery of this occasion. Lou felt as if he was being hemmed in by the crowd, squeezed into too small a space. He found it difficult to catch his breath until he found his way to the door, and pushed his way out to the parking lot.