It was the last entry.
“I failed her, Frank. She was looking for one adult she could trust, and I failed her completely.”
“Let me see, now. Not long ago, someone was telling me that no more applications were being accepted for the position of God.”
“It doesn’t stop you from feeling helpless, does it?”
“No,” he said, putting his arms around me. “You were right this afternoon. Neither of us can go back and change what happened Halloween night.”
“Want to take an ancient newspaper reporter to bed?”
“Come along, Granny.”
After I swore to him that I could get ready for the funeral the next morning in half an hour, he set the alarm for ten o’clock. We fell asleep almost as quickly as we lay down.
18
THE ALARM seemed to go off immediately. I felt like I was made of lead. Frank practically had to shove me out of bed and into the shower. He propped me up under the spray and eventually I seemed to be fully conscious, if not energetic.
We got dressed and drove to St. James Episcopal Church. I felt close to being right at home. After a night of reading about wicca rituals and chants, the rituals and chants inside St. James would be infinitely more familiar and comfortable. Not so hard for a lapsed Catholic to follow.
We had no sooner sat down near the back row than Pete Baird and Rachel Giocopazzi arrived and sat down next to us. I was surprised to see Rachel, as was Frank. She’s a homicide detective from Phoenix; she and Pete met on a case the previous summer and had been carrying on a long-distance relationship since then. They must have been racking up the frequent-flyer miles.
Pete leaned over to Frank and asked in a whisper if Episcopalians gave out holy cards at funerals. Frank shook his head “no.” As a lapsed Episcopalian, Frank would have to serve as the guide for the three of us. He was tense. He was doing his cop thing of observing everyone and everything in the room, and I noticed Pete and Rachel were doing it, too.
During her lifetime, Mrs. Fremont had been very generous to Las Piernas, not only with her money, but with her time as well. She had served on a number of community boards and organizations. Her work on behalf of young people had earned her many friends. The church was packed. In the front pew sat Paul Fremont and a man I didn’t recognize, but who had a rather striking appearance, even when seen from the limited view I had of him. He was about the same height as Paul, but he was wearing a black leather jacket with chains on the shoulders. His head was shaved and he wore an earring in one ear.
“Who is that next to Paul?” I whispered to Frank.
“Jack Fremont. Her son — Paul’s father.”
The service was short but moving. Unlike some others I had been to, this one was performed by a minister who actually knew the deceased. When he spoke her full name, Althea Fremont, I realized that even though I had heard her first name before, we had called her “Mrs. Fremont” for so long that it seemed like “Mrs.” was her first name. Althea. It was pretty and old-fashioned and I liked it.
The minister was able to make the congregation recall something of the spirit of Althea Fremont and why we were so fond of her. If a memorial service can be said to be upbeat, this one was.
I knew that Frank had been asked to be a pallbearer, but he had declined. I got the impression that he wanted to grieve as privately as possible, away from the eyes of the other mourners. By the end of the service, he was visibly upset, but trying to hold himself together. Pete offered to drive us over to the cemetery, and we accepted.
Outside, the sky was a dark gray, threatening rain. As we made our way in the long procession of cars, we took our minds off what we were doing by asking Rachel about Phoenix, her flight, her plans for this visit. She was taking three weeks of vacation, she said, returning near the end of the month. Pete was going to take some time off, too, but probably not until close to Thanksgiving.
Time off. It sounded great. Especially when I realized how long this day was bound to be.
Our attention was forced back to the funeral as we pulled up at the cemetery and made our way over to the graveside.
Frank, although dry-eyed and silent, held on to me and leaned against me from time to time, grieving for her in his own, quiet way. When the graveside service was over, Pete and Rachel moved off toward the car, Pete signaling me to take our time. Soon, only Jack and Paul Fremont were standing there with us. They walked over to us. Jack had an arm around his son’s shoulders. He extended his other hand to Frank. “You meant a lot to my mother,” he choked out. “She thought the world of you, Frank.”
It was odd to see grief on this man’s hardened face. A long white scar ran from the corner of his right eye to his jawline.
“She was so happy when you came back home, Jack,” Frank answered. “I’m glad you reconciled before… this happened.”
The gray mist was becoming a light sprinkle of rain. We turned away from the graveside and walked toward the cars. It was then I noticed the black limo parked at the curb. A tinted window rolled up and the car started and drove away as we approached.
