‘Christ, you can be infuriating.’
At that moment the organ inside the church piped up and the mourners broke into song: ‘Dear Lord and Father of mankind, forgive our foolish ways…’
‘Breathe through the hearts of our desire,’ said Abel distractedly.
‘What?’
‘It’s “breathe through the
‘No.’
‘What about the cemetery?’
‘Out of the question. Anywhere else is okay.’
Abel looked over at the chauffeurs. ‘No photos in front of the church, eh?’
He was gone as the words left his mouth. Hollis could only watch helplessly as Abel approached the group and addressed himself to the Wallaces’ muscle. The man squared off at first, then the tension went out of his bulky frame and he nodded, acquiescing. The group returned to their discussion, albeit a little selfconsciously, while Abel circled around them, snapping with the Graflex, issuing instructions to his models.
Hollis turned back to the church. The two towers flanking the facade were so disproportionate to each other— one low and delicate, the other wide, clumsy, monumentally tall—that he found himself wondering what had driven the builders to shun symmetry in favor of such glaring discord.
The unseen congregation launched into another verse of the hymn.
‘Breathe through the hearts of our desire,’ they sang, ‘thy coolness and thy balm.’
Abel behaved. He was gone by the time the doors opened and the pallbearers shuffled from the church with the casket. Manfred Wallace was paired at the front, his moist eyes glistening in the sunlight.
His sister, Gayle, head bowed and face veiled, walked behind the casket, her arm hooked through her father’s. George Wallace stood tall and upright, his features devoid of any expression.
Hollis scanned the faces of the mourners as they trailed down the steps of the church.
Where was Mary?
He had arrived as the service was beginning so he didn’t even know if she was inside.
He cursed himself. He’d been too quick to assume she’d turn up. Foolish, when so much was riding on her attendance. Now he was facing the prospect of losing a possible lead.
He didn’t recognize her at first, and it took him a moment to figure out why that was. She was wearing make- up, not much, but enough to distort her features, somehow enlarge her already full lips and overwhelm her pale eyes. It didn’t suit her, he thought, a little guiltily.
A crowd gathered hesitantly near the hearse, as if unsure whether they should be observing this particular stage of the operation. Undertakers swooped to assist as the pallbearers maneuvered the casket from their shoulders and slid it into the vehicle.
‘Hello.’
Mary turned. She was standing on the fringes near the back.
‘Hello.’
So what if her face didn’t light up? It was a somber occasion.
‘You look great.’
‘Thanks,’ she said flatly. She seemed almost annoyed with him.
‘Quite a turnout.’
‘Yes.’
People were dispersing now. He had to be quick or the moment would be lost.
‘She had a lot of friends.’
Not good, but it was the best lead-in he could think of.
Mary looked him clean in the eye.
‘You could just ask me straight, you know, it’s less insulting.’
‘What?’
‘You want me to point him out—the one I saw her down at the beach with. It’s why you’re here.’
All Hollis could manage was a feeble look.
She nodded towards a group of young people. ‘The tall one over there on the right.’
He was talking to a girl, a diminutive creature a good foot shorter than him—an almost comical pairing, not unlike the towers of the church facade. He was handsome in an unremarkable way, his features refined by generations of selective breeding to the point of blandness. If it hadn’t been for his height, Hollis might not have recognized him.
It was the same young man he had seen slouched in a rattan chair beside the Wallaces’ pool earlier in the week.
‘Happy now?’ asked Mary, not waiting for a reply.
