“Almond tarts?”
“Yes, Hollis,” she said in a 1980s science video voice. “Cyanide smells and tastes like bitter almonds. So I thought I would point out that these are not almond tarts, so you know I’m not trying to poison you.”
I paused. “…Said every person who ever tried to poison somebody.”
“Well, no. If you’re trying to poison somebody, it would be much less suspicious if you just handed them a bowl of almonds. Or an almondy dish.” She put on the creepiest fake smile I’ve ever seen and pantomimed holding a platter. “Appetizer, Hollis? I made a cheese ball.”
“With that look on your face, I would for sure know you were trying to poison me.”
She looked crestfallen. “I thought I was being a pretty good actress. I didn’t say anything at all about the almonds the cheese ball was rolled in. Or the fact that the ball was made from blue cheese and gruyere, because some bitter poisons can be masked by putting them into food with strong flavors.”
We both looked at the platter—the real one, not the one with the imaginary cheese ball. “Strong flavors…like lemon?” I asked.
She brought back the creepy smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Tart?”
“Okay, that was good.”
She dipped her head in a bow. “Thank you. Head nun in Sound of Music, Parkwood High, circa 2004.” She made a face. “Ew, 2004 gives away my age. Strike that.”
“I told you, I haven’t learned how to strike anything. I’m working on it.” Honestly, I hadn’t had much time to work on it. So far all I’d accomplished was knowing that I was having technical difficulties. “Maybe we should start with an update to the Coach Farley case.”
“Oh!” She had taken a bite of lemon tart, so she had to pause to chew and swallow. “That reminds me! The visitation and funeral are tonight.”
“You read my mind,” I said. Everyone knew the best place to find a murderer was at the funeral of the murdered. “We should definitely be there.”
“That’s what I was thinking.” She took another big bite, then said around it, “I’ll bring dessert for the widow. Hold the almonds.”
Gerald Farley may have had enemies, but he also had more than his fair share of mourners. The visitation at Bale & Sons Funeral Home was fairly scampering with community members trying to pay their respects.
One of the interchangeable & Sons held open the door for us and silently gestured toward the large chapel in the back. Daisy thanked him, reached into a gift bag filled with individually wrapped lemon tarts, and handed him one. He looked startled, as though he didn’t quite know what to do with it.
“Compliments of the Knock ’em Dead podcast, available everywhere you get your podcasts. You should listen,” she said.
While I admired her devotion to marketing, I questioned her sense of timing. I gave her my best Would You Put Those Away Before You Get Us in Trouble glare, but she simply lowered the bag to her side and moved on.
Coach Farley lay in a steel casket, most of his face engulfed in football memorabilia brought by grievers. A woman I took to be his wife, Wilma Louise, stood nearby, gratefully greeting the long line of visitors one-by-one while dabbing at the end of her nose with a Kleenex.
“Poor thing,” Daisy said softly. “She must feel like the rug got ripped out from under her. I wonder if they have kids.”
“I don’t see any kids,” I said. “She’s the only one in the receiving line.”
Daisy took a breath. “That almost makes it worse. She’s all alone now. Can you imagine how lonely that must feel, Hollis, to be all alone?” Her eyes grew big. “I’m so sorry. I forgot that you are alone.”
“I’m not alone,” I said. “I have you. And King. And my job. And the podcast.” But now that she’d mentioned it…that didn’t seem like enough. Was I lonely? Did Mrs. Farley and I have that in common? Would the coach pop into her memory at random, inconvenient times, like Trace popped into mine? Would those memories make her ache for him all over again?
I made a mental note to talk to Mrs. Farley. I needed to find out who Gerald Farley was when he was not on the field.
Daisy and I ducked into the back pew and observed. I pulled out my new, empty notebook and pencil and poised myself to write.
Only there was nothing, really, to write about. No matter who Farley might have been, it was hard to take in a bunch of people in various states of distress, including his crying widow, with an objective eye. It was something I always struggled with—even the dirtiest of the dirty players out there had normal people in their lives who loved them, and who were truly sad that they were gone. And it really seemed that everyone in this room fell into some version of that category.
Except for the guy standing in the corner, blending in with the potted plants, dry-eyed and scowling.
“Isn’t that Wickham Birkland?” I whispered.
Daisy squinted in his direction, then gasped. “It is. What on earth do you suppose he’s doing here?”
“A significant number of killers attend the funerals of their victims,” I said.
“You don’t suppose we should…”
“I do suppose exactly that. But play it cool.”
“Of course.”
We both slid out of the pew and sauntered toward Wickham. He saw us coming and disappeared into the crowd surrounding a photo display. We stopped, craning our necks trying to see where he had gone.
“Over there,” Daisy finally said, peering over the crowd on her tiptoes. She was pointing toward the vestibule, where a couple more & Sons were congregating morosely.
We left the chapel, heads down, calm, but as soon as we popped clear, we raced after him. He saw us coming and bolted through a door, causing an & Son to call out in surprise. The & Son followed him, and we followed the two of them through
