The organist was playing “Rock of Ages” as the crowd sat in the church sanctuary in silence. Faye and her crewmembers who attended—Richard, Ayesha, and Stephanie—sat in the center of the last row, making sure that everyone who had known Frida personally could take a seat in front of them. Linton sat in the second row, directly behind the seats where the family would soon be sitting. Faye could see him clearly in the small church, and it seemed to her that anger radiated off his back. Sylvia also sat on the almost-family row, but she chose a spot several seats away from Linton and she never looked his way.
Mayfield sat a few rows behind Sylvia, and Walt Walker was directly behind Mayfield. Jeremiah and Armand sat together, across the aisle from Linton. As it turned out, Detective McDaniel had felt the same need to hang back as Faye. He dropped into the chair next to her so casually that she was almost convinced that he was glad to see her.
“It’s a good thing you’re here,” she whispered. “I was going to call you. I’ve been talking to Phyllis Windom. Do you know who she is?”
“Bit of a crackpot, isn’t she? Thinks she can use her computer better than we can use ours?”
“Crackpot or not, there are plenty of grateful testimonials on her website from police departments and sheriff’s offices that say she can do the things she claims.” Now Faye was irritated. She had to work to keep her voice at a whisper. Holding out her phone, she said, “She just called me with information on the Arkansas case that ties it to the bones we found this morning.”
“You’re kidding. What’s the link?” He was trying to whisper, but it came out more like a loud hiss. Sylvia turned and gave him a disapproving look.
“Flowers.”
“That’s…indicative.”
She had the sense that he wanted to say, “That’s amazing,” or “That’s exciting,” but that he’d forced himself to find a more noncommittal word.
“You think? And maybe she is better with her computer than y’all are. Or anybody else. Just because she’s a genius doesn’t mean everybody else isn’t smart. Guess what I just found in her databases.”
“I’m afraid to ask out loud. Sylvia might come back here and rap my knuckles.”
“Then whisper. I found three more cases associated with flowers.”
“Here?”
“Knoxville. Birmingham. Bowling Green, Kentucky.”
“Knoxville’s a hike from here. So’s Birmingham. Faye, if you reach far enough, you can find anything.”
Faye gave him a look that probably had a strong resemblance to Sylvia’s please-shut-up glare. “You can drive to any of those places and get back in a day.”
“If you hustle.”
“The people in Birmingham found an actual receipt for the flowers. Look.”
He took a peek at her phone’s screen. “A receipt for flowers? Seriously? You found that in the big data pile that Phyllis Windom calls a database? Maybe you’re the one who’s a genius. You’re going to send me that, right?”
Faye cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t know if I should. I found it in a crackpot’s database.”
“I’m thinking of the words ‘obstruction of justice….’”
“Oh, okay. If you insist. Here’s everything I know.” She forwarded him the email thread that had passed between her and Windom, and she heard his phone vibrate in his pocket when it came through. “Now you’ve got it. Happy?”
“Ecstatic.”
A set of swinging doors opened and Frida’s casket emerged, escorted by six family members serving as pallbearers. After the casket had been positioned at the front of the sanctuary, the rest of the family came in, with Laneer and Kali entering last, hand in hand. Once the swinging door closed behind the family, Reverend Atkinson took his place at the pulpit. A stained-glass window depicting Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane provided a glowing backdrop for the minister and his dark clothing. The window sent scattered shards of colorful light to rest on Frida’s face.
“We gather today, in the presence of God, to bid farewell to Ms. Frida Stone, who was taken from us so suddenly and far too soon.”
A scattering of amens sounded.
“The loss of dear Frida is a reminder to us all that we are made of dust. We must repent daily, because tomorrow is not promised.”
From here, the minister launched into a prefab sermon that had nothing to do with Frida, unless one counted intimations that people who lived impure lives should repent early and often, since their lifestyles could attract murder.
This was wrong.
Faye firmly believed that a eulogy should eulogize. It should make the person live again, one last time. She wanted Laneer to hear the minister tell stories about Frida as a little girl who loved ice cream. She wanted Kali to hear about how sweet Frida had been as a young mother pushing a stroller. Instead, they were getting the same hellfire-and-brimstone sermon he preached every time he bellied up to a pulpit. She had been able to resist crying since arriving at the funeral, but now the frustrated tears began to roll.
When Reverend Atkinson got to the climax of his sermon, he shouted, “Yes, ladies and gentlemen, God works in mysterious ways! Everything happens for a reason!”
This was the point at which Kali let the crowd know that she had heard enough.
“No, it doesn’t!” she cried, leaping to her feet and into the shadow of Atkinson’s pulpit. “It doesn’t all happen for a reason. There ain’t no reason for my mama to be laying there dead. Is there?” She turned to look at the congregation, evading Laneer’s trembling hand as it reached out to quiet her. “Do any of you people think God did this? ’Cause if you do, I don’t want to know your God and I don’t want to know you.”
She was backing away from them all. Laneer was going after her and everybody else was letting him fill the role of comforting caretaker, but he moved so slow. He was no match for a
