florist taking notes in a file.
‘Richard,’ called George Wallace. ‘How many windows in the church?’
‘Ten,’ came a disembodied voice from the terrace. ‘Eleven including the apse.’
‘Ten or eleven?’ George Wallace turned irritably, catching sight of Hollis as he did so.
‘I tried to call,’ said Hollis. ‘The telephone was engaged.’ He moved deeper into the room. ‘I thought we should talk about the traffic. I imagine there’ll be a fair number of cars.’
Chief Milligan had assigned Hollis to the problem of congestion that would inevitably arise at a society funeral, issuing the order with relish, keen to point out that Hollis had done ‘such a damn good job on the Memorial Day parade’. To the Chief’s evident disappointment, Hollis hadn’t fought him on it. He welcomed anything that brought him into contact with the Wallaces right now.
‘Richard.’
A middle-aged man materialized from the terrace as if from the wings of a stage. There was a polish and grace about him that hovered on the edge of effeteness. Trim and slight, his dark hair was receding neatly at the temples. His features were clean and even. Keen dark eyes peered out on the world from behind goldrimmed spectacles that lent him a scholarly air, and a cigarette smoldered between his slender fingers. Hollis remarked that, despite the heat, his shirt remained buttoned, the knot of his necktie unloosened.
‘This is…’
Hollis took his cue from George Wallace, who had clearly forgotten his name. ‘Deputy Chief Hollis.’
‘He wants to talk about numbers at the funeral.’
The man approached, offering a hand. ‘Richard Wakeley.’
His grip was surprisingly firm. The smile appeared to be genuine.
‘Richard’s a friend of the family,’ said George Wallace. ‘He’ll fill you in.’
A courteous dismissal, if ever there was one.
‘Shall we?’ said Wakeley, steering Hollis towards the terrace.
‘Deputy Hollis.’ He turned to Manfred Wallace. ‘I’m sorry for the other day…at the morgue, I mean. I wasn’t myself.’
‘Forget it,’ said Hollis, aware that Manfred could well have said nothing and spared himself the look of mild astonishment from his father.
They strolled through the garden, sticking to the shade, Wakeley sipping homemade lemonade, Hollis regretting that he’d declined the offer of a glass.
The service was set to take place at the First Presbyterian Church on Main Street, the burial to follow immediately after at the Cedar Lawns Cemetery on Cooper Lane. This would mean traversing the railroad tracks at the top end of Newtown Lane, and Hollis made a mental note to contact the station master about train schedules. It wasn’t a grade-crossing—no danger of the Cannon Ball broadsiding a car-load of mourners—but it still wouldn’t look good if the barriers came down, sundering the long, creeping cortege as it wormed its way northwards.
Wakeley anticipated about two hundred people attending. Hollis pledged the full co-operation of both the East Hampton Town and Village police forces. Main Street, Cooper Lane and Further Lane would all have to be kept clear of cars so that the armada of vehicles could park. Moreover, every junction on the route would have to be manned by an officer holding up other traffic.
Wakeley appreciated the scale of the operation, graciously thanking Hollis for the inconvenience to which the force would be put. There was something reassuring, calming even, about the man—the mellifluous tones of his voice, the way in which he handled himself, deferring to Hollis’ expertise. He was a consummate manager of men, and certainly more than just a friend of the family, that much was clear. The silk necktie, the monogrammed shirt, the black leather Oxfords, all suggested a person on equal standing with the Wallaces; and yet the high-handed manner in which George Wallace had addressed him earlier spoke of a different relationship. What was he exactly? Something less than a friend and peer; more than mere employee.
Hollis’ musings were interrupted by a piercing female scream. It was followed closely by a loud splash. They had strayed to the end of the garden where the swimming pool was located. More playful shrieks now emanated from behind the yew hedge that screened the pool on three sides. Hollis moved to take a better look.
‘Shall we head back?’ said Wakeley.
Hollis permitted himself two further steps, but they were enough.
Gayle Wallace was reclining on a lounge chair beside the pool, wearing a dark swimsuit, straw hat and sunglasses. She was smiling wistfully at the antics of an attractive young couple frolicking in the water. Another couple was seated on rattan chairs in the shade of an umbrella, sipping drinks.
‘Shall we?’ said Wakeley, more firmly. Hollis briefly locked eyes with Gayle as he turned and followed.
They were halfway back to the house when Gayle came hurrying up behind them.
‘Deputy Hollis.’ She had pulled on a light chiffon robe that barely concealed what lay beneath, not that it had ever been designed to do so. Even without shoes she was a shade taller than Hollis.
‘I just wanted to thank you for the recommendation—the funeral home, I mean.’
‘Funeral home?’
She frowned momentarily, then remembered and smiled. ‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten.’ She turned her gaze on Wakeley. ‘Deputy Hollis isn’t supposed to make recommendations about such things, but you won’t tell anyone, will you, Wakeley?’
‘Of course not.’
Wakeley, thought Hollis—definitely more employee than friend.
‘Have they finished inside?’ asked Gayle.
