CHAPTER 4
'I don't think you should go to ellen Sheridan's funeral,' Barry said. I was just clearing off the dishes from supper. Since his son, Jeffrey, was at a friend's, Barry had time for once. I'd thrown together a casserole and some salad, and we'd eaten at the built-in booth in the kitchen. No detective suit today--Barry wore jeans and a pocket T-shirt. They weren't the high-fashion jeans that get abused to look broken-in. His were a soft blue from being worn. Barry looked good in everything, but I liked him best like this.
As soon as I took away the dishes, he spread out some tools and my toaster. The popper-upper had stopped working.Barry could fix everything, and whenever he came across anything that was broken or barely working, he did his magic. My house had never been so functional.
'Why? What aren't you telling me?' I stopped halfway to the sink.
'Nothing.' His face as usual was inscrutable, probably from too many years of working in law enforcement. 'You've been mixed up in it enough. Let it go.'
'Let what go?' Barry and I both turned as the back door opened and my son Peter walked in. His tone was confrontational,as though he'd immediately assumed whatever Barry was suggesting was wrong. Peter had called earlier to say he'd be stopping by to pick up his golf clubs. Though he had his own apartment, all his sports equipment was still here. He looked at Barry and the tools on the table, and his eyes narrowed. 'I would have fixed your toaster.'
Not in this lifetime. I loved my older son dearly, but I knew him for what he was. Peter could fix deals, not things. He would have just bought a new one. Not that it was really about the toaster, anyway. Peter had shown a certain degree of animosity toward Barry from day one. I gathered it was something about the idea of my dating and whatever else I might be doing with Barry that didn't sit well with him.
The first time they'd met was at a party I'd thrown for my son Samuel's birthday. Peter took one look at Barry and pulled me into the kitchen, wanting to know who he was and how I'd met him. He wasn't any happier when he heard the details.
'You picked up a stranger in the grocery store,' Peter said, looking at me as though I'd lost my mind.
'He wasn't a stranger.' I explained that I knew Barry from traffic school. 'He was the last-minute stand-in teacher, taking over for the motor cop who came down with food poisoning. I was there for making a right turn on a red light without stopping, though I still say it was yellow.'
Peter glared with disapproval as I continued.
'So, you see, when I saw him in front of me in line at the grocery store, I already knew him, more or less.' Peter had seemed no more sympathetic when he heard about Barry's handheld basket containing a single box of frozen macaroni and cheese, along with a six-pack of beer. 'His groceries looked lonely.' I'd gestured toward the counter crowded with food ready to be served. 'And I had a cartful of pot roast and potatoes and fixings for that.' I pointed towardthe German chocolate cake on the pedestal plate. 'I invited him to join the party.'
Despite Peter's giving Barry the evil eye for most of the party, Barry had enjoyed the company and the food, and had fixed my electric can opener. Since then he had fixed every broken and half-broken thing in the house and become part of my life, and Peter had never changed his opinion.
I recognized the same unhappy look now as Peter took out a glass and poured himself some orange juice.
'I was telling your mother she should skip Ellen Sheridan'sfuneral,' Barry said, wrangling the toaster innards. I guess all his cop work had taught him to deal with disapprovaland confrontation, because he never seemed botheredby Peter's manner.
'But she was a neighbor,' I protested. 'And Charlie's partner. She came to his funeral. It would be strange if I didn't go to hers.'
Peter drank the contents of the small glass in a single swallow and set it down on the counter. 'He's right. You shouldn't go.'
'What?' I stammered.
'You should do what he says. Let it go.'
I don't know who was the most surprised by Peter's comments. In all the times his path had crossed Barry's, Peter had never even come close to going along with anything Barry said.
I almost wanted to skip the funeral to cement their new-foundagreement.
But only almost.
'HOW DO YOU THINK I'D LOOK AS A BLONDE?' Dinah patted her spiky salt-and-pepper hair. 'I'm thinking it would knock off a few years.' Dinah had offered to come along with me to the funeral even though she'd known Ellen only in passing. She kept the mood light as I drove through the gates marked HILLSIDE MEMORIAL PARK.
'And that is off of how many years?' I smiled at her expectantly.
'Ha, ha. You didn't really think I'd fall for that?'
It was more of a tease than an effort to get at the truth. Dinah was determined to keep her age vague.
'People know your exact age, and they start to judge you. Of course,' she continued, her expression growing serious as we passed a grassy hillside marked with headstones, 'gettingolder is definitely better than the alternative.'
Dinah had jazzed up her black jacket and pants with several intertwined long scarves in shades of green, earringsso long they almost hit her shoulders, and a lot of silverbracelets, which jangled as we walked toward the chapel. It was a gorgeous September day, with warm, dry air that felt like silk, and it seemed a shame to have to go inside. By the time we got there, all the seats were filled and we had to sit on folding chairs in the back. Ellen would have been pleased at the turnout and the fact that Lawrence Sheridan had gotten the A-list celebrant to handle the proceedings.She managed to soften all of Ellen's edges and build up all of her good points. Even with all the differencesbetween Ellen and me, I couldn't help but tear up.
After the service, Dinah and I followed the snake of cars to the burial site, but we didn't join the proceedings. It reminded me too much of Charlie's funeral. It was a relief to head to the reception.
The street in front of the Sheridan house was usually empty, but by the time we drove by, every inch of curb space was taken. I drove home and parked in my own driveway, and Dinah and I walked the two blocks.
'I might have to duck out. I'm expecting a call,' Dinah said as we got in sight of the white picket fence and coral roses that marked the front of the Sheridans' yard. 'Mr. Online wants to go live-voice.' Her face beamed with a hopeful smile before going back to funeral-somber. 'I understandgoing to the funeral, but are you sure you want to go to the house?'
I repeated what I had told Barry and Peter--about Ellen's being a neighbor and Charlie's partner--but added what I hadn't told them. 'To see if I can find out anything about who really . . .' I gestured with my hands, hoping Dinah would fill in the blank.
Dinah got it and started to say something, but her cell phone interrupted. 'I'll catch up with you,' she said, stoppingas she pulled it out.
As I continued toward the house, I noticed a throng of people gathered at the entrance to the yard. I was straining to see what was going on, when CeeCee stepped next to me. She knew how to dress for a funeral. I had worn my all-occasion black pantsuit with flats, and left my shoulder-lengthhair moussed and loose. CeeCee wore a white silk shell under a perfectly tailored black suit with a pencil skirt, designer sling-backs and a matching purse. She completedthe look with a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses.
'I can't believe paparazzi showed up here,' I said, seeingthat the throng had cameras.
'Well, dear,' CeeCee said, straightening the jacket of her suit, 'they go wherever they can get some shots of celebs.' She adjusted the tilt of her head to show off her best side. 'I'm surprised you came, under the circumstances.'
'What circumstances?' I asked.
She stepped closer and lowered her voice, even though there was no one to hear. 'Oh, you know, dear, after being questioned by that detective, well, I thought you'd want to keep your distance.' It was disconcerting that CeeCee stayed with the posed look instead of turning toward me as she spoke. 'You know, some people think that murderers like to show up at the funeral.' Her voice had such a sugary innocence, she made murderers sound as benign as caterers.
As we approached the photographers hanging by the gate, she assumed a more appropriately funereal expression.'You should have let me give you the brand of makeup.' She gestured toward her face. 'See, no orange,
