slowly began working my way toward the front of the funeral home. Conrad’s coffin had been moved into the chapel to accommodate the larger crowd. Despite the solemnity of the occasion, even inside the chapel itself there was little in the way of melancholy. I found myself hoping that when I crossed over, at least a few acquaintances would look like it bothered them, even if they had to fake it.
I retraced my steps to the lounge. The tiny room was packed with visitors and thick with blue cigarette smoke. My eyes burned, and it seemed as if the opposite wall was barely visible. Next to the soda machine, can in hand, stood Walter Quinlan in a black suit.
“Hey, buddy,” I said, walking up to him and sticking out my hand. He looked stressed, not at all the happy exuberance I’d seen the other day.
“Hi, Harry. How are you?”
“I’m hanging in there, man.” He shook my hand tightly. “I’m glad to see you. I was wondering if I’d run into anybody I know.”
“Don’t worry. They’re all here.”
“You seem strung out, my man. What’s the matter?”
“All this, I guess. I hate funerals.” There was a redness in his eyes. Had he been crying? Didn’t seem likely. Walter wasn’t the type. More likely, he’d had a few drinks and a lousy night’s sleep.
“You been here long?”
He hesitated for a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe an hour.”
“Seen Rachel yet?”
“Oh, yeah. I came by the other night, too. Sorry I missed you.”
“Me, too. I had to leave earlier. Had to check something out.”
He grabbed my arm and pulled me closer to him. In the crowded room, with a buzzing conversational din all around us, nobody was going to hear anything we said. But Walter wanted to make sure.
“Are you still working on this, Harry?” he whispered.
“Yeah. Of course.”
“Harry, I want you to stop. This is killing Rachel. It’s not what she wants.”
“What do you mean?” I demanded. “She wants the person who murdered Conrad, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, she wants him. Bad. But she doesn’t want anything to happen to you. And you have a lousy habit of getting yourself into places where you shouldn’t be.”
Tension radiated through my shoulders, and I found myself wanting to tell him to mind his own business. This was, after all, between my client and me. Walter, though, was my lawyer and he was a buddy. So I guess he had the right to butt in if he wanted to.
“Walter, we’ve been on this ride before. I can take care of myself. This is important to me, damn it. And I’m not quitting.”
“Suit yourself, you jerk,” he snapped, letting my arm go with a push. “But when you get hurt, don’t come yelling to me for help.”
I walked away without saying anything else. He’ll cool off, I thought. Everybody’s walking the edge today.
Inside the chapel, Rachel stood in a simple black dress, her hair pulled back in a bun, with just enough makeup to cover the dark circles under her eyes. She was at the head of the aisle, a few steps away from the coffin and the still-expanding circle of wreaths and flowers. No tears had been expended by the mourners, but I’ll bet some checkbooks had been strained. It was a great day to be a florist.
I stood halfway down the aisle for a moment, in the long line of people waiting to extend condolences, when I spotted Howard Spellman at the back of the chapel. He sat off in a corner by himself, at the far end of the last pew. I broke from the line and walked back down the green carpet, then cut in toward him. He watched me without getting up, and I slid into the seat next to him.
“Lieutenant Spellman,” I said. “How nice to see you again.”
“Hello, Denton.”
I followed his eyes toward the front of the sanctuary. He was watching Rachel, along with several other people I didn’t recognize, as they shook hands in the receiving line.
“Her family?” I asked.
“The two on the left are her parents. The silver-haired one on the right is his father. I understand Fletcher’s mother had to leave. Too much for her.”
“How about the tall guy at the end?”
“Mrs. Fletcher’s brother, I think. The man and the woman on the other end are Fletcher’s brother and sister.”
“Fletcher had siblings?” I asked.
Spellman turned to me. “He
“So I’ve heard.”
“People do have brothers, sisters, cousins.”
“Funny,” I commented, “I’d have guessed that Fletcher was an only child. Maybe it was the combination of being an overachiever and difficult to deal with.”
“He was the oldest.”
I looked down at my watch. The funeral was going to start in about fifteen minutes.
“If I’m going to make it through the receiving line before the kickoff, I’d better get on up there. You staying for the whole ball game?”
Spellman looked up at me as I stood up. “Not if it means you’re going to come back and sit with me.”
“Lieutenant, I hope you don’t think my presence here is a case of the killer coming by to check out his own handiwork.”
He went stone-faced on me. I took my cue and walked off. I couldn’t help jibing him; he was such a tough guy. Cop works homicide for twenty years, he’s going to get a little jaded. Just thought I’d put a little humor back into his colorless, dreary life.
The line sped up a little as the clock wound down to show time. Funerals make me so uncomfortable that my mind runs around in unconnected, disjointed, extremely inappropriate patterns to avoid feeling what’s happening. Sort of a mental Tourette’s Syndrome. Thank God, we can’t see inside each other’s heads. The world would be even crazier than it already is.
Finally, I got to Rachel. I hugged her, her form warm and vibrant in my arms. This, I thought, is the roughest of duties. Amazingly enough, she had not yet reached that point where she was on automatic pilot. She was still actually hearing the words of sympathy from each person, still feeling the loss, the conflict of despair, sadness, along with the good dose of anger we all feel at the dead.
She sobbed in my arms, her face tightening, although her eyes remained dry. The tear ducts can only work so hard before even they give out. But the heart continues.
I felt like hell for her. I wanted to wrap my arms around her, take her away from this grim room. I even found myself with that old familiar burning down below that she’d always fired in me. I had to fight to suppress that one, let me tell you. Nothing like getting frisky at a funeral to get yourself dropped off the A-list at party time.
“Thanks for coming,” she said, pulling away from me.
“What can I do to help you?”
“You can take care of yourself. Be my friend. Come see me after all this is over.”
“You got it,” I said. “No problem.”
I wove through the rest of the line, meeting the relatives and the in-laws, shaking my head in sadness and agreeing that this was indeed a terrible tragedy. Then I took a seat in the chapel about midway down the aisle. I looked around and saw Dr. Collingswood and Dr. Zitin sitting next to each other. James Hughes sat farther back with a group of other medical students. I looked around for LeAnn Gwynn, then realized she was in the back of the chapel with Jackie Bell and a covey of much younger nurses. All we needed was Bubba Hayes to complete the cast, but I doubted if bookies were in the habit of showing up for their customers’ funerals. After all, how could they collect?
Yes, I’d agreed with someone from Conrad’s family in the receiving line: this was a terrible tragedy. But for
