Headed south on the freeway Sunday afternoon, Mars did a double-take on the Thirty-sixth Street exit. He thought about what Evelyn Rau had asked last night about whether he’d gone to Mary Pat’s funeral or grave. Mars glanced down at his watch, and on an impulse, took the exit.
Lakewood Cemetery is prime Minneapolis real estate. It’s bordered by West Thirty-sixth Street, Lake Calhoun, and hills. The gently rolling hills of the site are populated by hardwood and evergreen trees. This November, with no snow, the evergreens were the only things in sight that looked alive.
Mars slowed the car to a crawl as it passed a faux Byzantine chapel. Could he find Mary Pat’s grave site without going in to ask? A cemetery maintenance man came around the side of the building. Mars rolled the window down and asked for directions. The man went into the building, came back out, and pointed Mars to a fork in the road that ran to the right, toward the lake. Mars’s memory held an image of a newspaper photo of the family standing under a canopy by the graveside. As he drove, Mars looked for something that matched the memory.
He was concentrating so hard on where he was going that he didn’t pay much attention to the sleek black Mercedes that passed, too fast, on his left. Mars braked as the Mercedes
slowed ahead of him, pulled to the right, and stopped, its hazard lights flashing.
The driver’s-side door swung open, and a young woman in big black sunglasses, designer jeans, and a parka, got out of the Mercedes. It wasn’t until she pulled her sunglasses off that Mars recognized Becky Prince.
Becky took broad, jumping steps toward Mars. “Detective Bahr! What are you doing here?”
Through the opened car window, Mars said, “I thought you were going away to school in September?”
“Thanksgiving break.” She held her hand up to shade her eyes, peering at Mars.
Mars said, “I’m probably here for the same reason you are. Except I’m not sure where the grave is. Can I follow you?”
Becky was already by the headstone when Mars pulled up to park. Coming up behind Becky, Mars saw that she had embedded a small bouquet in the dirt below the stone. Stuck in among the flowers were Tootsie Roll pops.
“Mary Pat liked Tootsie Roll pops?”
“Ummm. Her only vice.” She glanced back at Mars. Her eyes were unreadable behind the big black glasses, but there were no tears on her cheeks. She said, “Can I confess something to you, Detective Bahr?”
“I’d make a lousy priest. And I hope to God you’re not going to tell me something I don’t want to hear about this case … .”
She smiled and shook her head. “I guess ‘confess’ isn’t the word. It’s more like ‘admit.’ And it doesn’t have anything to do with the case.” Becky looked away from him, back down at the gravestone. “You know I’d do anything to bring Mary Pat back. But the weird thing is, as much as I love her—in a way my life is better now. I mean, Mary Pat was always better than everybody else at everything. And I always felt
sort of second-rate, by comparison. If Mary Pat had lived, I think I would have lived the rest of my life comparing myself to Mary Pat—where she was, what she was doing. And I know I would never have matched up.” She looked up at Mars. “Am I an awful person to feel like that?”
Mars stepped forward and, putting an arm around Becky, gave her a quick hug. “I’m going to share with you the only wisdom I’ve gleaned from my years as a Homicide cop. Murders change lives. Most of those changes are bad. If you can squeeze something good out of Mary Pat’s death—do it, and don’t look back.”
Becky extended her arm around Mars and squeezed back. “Thanks.” She pulled away. “I gotta go. Lunch at the club with my parents.” She rolled her eyes and walked back toward the Mercedes, throwing Mars a small wave before she got into the car.
Mars stood alone by the gravestone for a moment longer. The engraving on the stone read, Mary Patricia Fitzgerald. Beloved Daughter, Beloved Sister. You couldn’t help but notice what was missing. Being a daughter and a sister were all she’d had time for.
The warmth of the car felt good. He reversed gears and backed out. When he looked in the rearview mirror, the grave was out of view.