“Which reminds me, what happens to all MarySue’s clothes?” I asked as we moved away from the open coffin toward the far wall.
“Good question. Wouldn’t it be nice if Jim would donate them to a women’s shelter?”
“I would suggest it if Jim didn’t hate me,” I said.
“Dolce,” someone said, “how lovely to see you.”
Dolce turned to greet a woman I didn’t know, and I was left standing by myself. I took the opportunity to admire the banks of flowers which filled one side of the room. Huge bouquets like one with mixed roses and chrysanthemums all in yellow. Another was shaped like a heart made of red tulips. Tulips at this time of year? That must have cost a bundle. In the corner I saw the one Dolce had sent. It was small but lovely, made of peach- colored roses, pink carnations and gerbera daisies. Very simple but beautiful. I went over to smell the roses and read the card which said, “Deepest Sympathy to the Jensen family from Dolce and Rita.” Dolce hadn’t asked me to contribute so I was grateful to her for putting my name on it. The other cards had sentiments like—“MISSING YOU.” “GODSPEED ON YOUR JOURNEY.” “IN LOVING MEMORY.”
Surveying the crowd I couldn’t help thinking that the murderer was here. Isn’t it true that most murders are committed by someone close to the victim, someone she knew very well? Of course, it could have been a random act of greed. Some stranger coveted her silver shoes and saw an opportunity to poison MarySue and seize them. But I didn’t buy that theory. I’d bet my new black shearling ankle boots the killer was here in this room. I wasn’t frightened. Who would kill again at his last victim’s funeral? It just wasn’t done. Not even in the movies or on HBO. I was just on edge, with a heightened sense of awareness of everyone and everything around me.
Every remark spoken by one of the mourners seemed amplified. No matter how banal or insensitive.
I heard someone say, “It was a blessing.” As if MarySue had been suffering some fatal disease. Maybe she was because I overheard someone else say, “At least she’s no longer suffering.” People were going up to Jim and saying things like, “You should stay busy to take your mind off your loss,” and “God never gives anyone more than he can handle.” I moved away but not before I heard someone tell Jim, “I know just how you feel.”
How did he feel? Angry? Yes. Relieved? Maybe. Nervous? Yes. Guilty? That depended on what he did besides yell at MarySue for her overspending.
I noticed Detective Wall was standing at the back of the room. I imagined he knew that axiom about killers finding their victims on familiar ground. How many husbands have murdered their unfaithful or nagging wives? How many children have murdered their critical, overbearing parents? Doesn’t everyone know the story of Lizzie Borden who “gave her mother forty whacks and when she saw what she had done, she gave her father forty-one”?
I once read that killers often take a trophy from their victim. Like a pair of shoes. Which illustrates their need for self-magnification. I wanted to share these nuggets of insight with my favorite detective, but he’d warned me off, so I kept my distance. His loss. He’d have to find the murderer on his own.
I’d expected him to be wearing dark glasses to hide behind, but then he would have stood out and not in a good way. Instead he was wearing a conservative Calvin Klein single-breasted dark suit with plain-front trousers. With it a blue shirt with French cuffs and a striped old-school tie. He didn’t look like a cop. Not today. Not ever really. He looked like he could be anybody, an old friend of Jim, or a cousin of MarySue. Anybody but the cop who was looking for MarySue’s killer. I watched him watch everyone else. Trying to see who he was looking at.
Finally he looked straight at me. I took that as a sign not that I was a suspect, but that it was okay to go up and speak to him.
“I hope I’m not blowing your cover by speaking to you,” I said, glancing around to be sure no one was near enough to hear me.
“You’re actually giving me cover.” He gave me a headto-heels look, and I was glad I’d worn a black dress by a British designer with long sleeves and a jewel neckline. Just to be clear, it was the black dress that had the long sleeves and jewel neckline, not the British designer. It was flattering and still didn’t shout “Look at me!” when the attention should rightfully be on the deceased. If I were somewhere besides a funeral and had two good ankles, I would have worn a pair of chunky heels and a leather jacket with it. Jack’s gaze finally landed on my Paul Mayer black-lace ballet flats.
“Nice shoes,” he said. Trust Jack to appreciate fine quality and styling.
“I can’t wear anything with heels yet because of my accident. Thanks for noticing.”
“I notice everything. It’s my job.”
“Then you already noticed the place is full of suspects. That’s why you’re here.”
He didn’t say anything. That was how I knew I was right. When I wasn’t, he let me know. When the music started, it was a sign for everyone to take a seat. I went to the back row and looked around to see whether someone was actually playing the Chopin Piano Sonata or it was a recording. Jack came and sat next to me. I didn’t see a piano, and I didn’t see Dolce. Maybe she was sitting up in front with her friend.
Following the Chopin was the funeral march theme from Beethoven’s Third Symphony. I must have looked surprised because Jack turned and whispered in my ear, “What’s wrong? MarySue didn’t like Beethoven?”
I shrugged. How would I know? But ask me about her taste in shoes and I could write a book. “What would you choose?” I asked under my breath.
“Some Dixieland jazz would be nice. And a parade through the streets.”
I smiled at the image in my mind. Detective Jack Wall’s coffin being carried through the streets of his beat by his parolees, with gangsters, pimps and drug addicts standing on the curb cheering or weeping as he passed by.
“ ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’ . . . ‘Didn’t He Ramble’ . . . ‘Down By the Riverside’ . . . You mean like those?”
He nodded. The recorded music continued. Mourners continued to file in.
“What about you?” Jack asked.
“I’ve always liked Barber’s Adagio for Strings,” I said, my eyes following the women who walked past in their little black dresses and the men in their dark suits. It was too bad someone didn’t show some imagination. I didn’t, but I didn’t want to stand out. MarySue sure wanted to stand out. Had she had a premonition of her upcoming demise and ordered a jacket for this very occasion? Not likely.
“I think for me I’d choose something more upbeat,” I said.
“What, like a barbershop quartet singing ‘My Wild Irish Rose’?” he asked.
I pictured straw hats and bow ties, and I knew that wasn’t really me. “I’m not Irish. So no quartet. I don’t know. I just don’t want my funeral to be a downer.”
“Since you’re planning ahead, you probably know what you’d wear,” he said.
“To my funeral? Hmmm. Not really. I’ve never thought about it before.”
“Neither did MarySue,” he said soberly.
I nodded. She sure didn’t. “Well, I might want to wear something different. Black is so obvious. What if I wore something sparkly, just to give everyone a lift? Put a smile on their faces? I’d want them to say, ‘Isn’t that just like Rita to wear sequins to her own funeral?’ I’d want some festive earrings and a bracelet too. I’m actually more worried about drawing a crowd. I’m not MarySue. I’m new in town. What if no one comes?”
A woman sitting in front of us turned around to stare at the latecomers straggling in. “I know one thing,” I said softly. “You won’t have to worry about attendance at your funeral. Cops always make a big deal when one of their own dies. Or is that only in the line of duty?”
He shrugged as if he didn’t know.
“For a cop like you there will be a motorcycle parade, bagpipes playing taps, the whole thing,” I said. “You don’t get a choice.”
“Maybe I’ll die in my sleep, and I can skip the parade of escorts and the flyby,” he said. “But I do want the jazz music.”
“Live band?”
“Yeah, definitely. Saint Gabriel’s Celestial Brass Band if they’re not busy.” He paused and squinted. “Who’s the guy in the black sneakers and silk T-shirt?”
I didn’t even need to look. “Peter Butinski.”
“Why is he leaning over the coffin? Looks like he’s crying.”
“He’s our shoe supplier.”
“I’d like to have a talk with him.”
“He’ll freak out.”
