A few organ chords made up her mind and she pulled open the heavy door. Inside, the church was quiet and dim and smelled like old wood and chrysanthemums. She waved away the usher, declining to sit and instead remained standing in the rear of the church. From that vantage point she could see the whole church and the fifty or so people who had come to the service.
In the front row she spotted Ellie and two attractive young women she took to be Ellie’s daughters sitting on her left. On Ellie’s right, Lucy was surprised to see a man. She couldn’t tell who he was from his back, but he was very solicitious of Ellie, who was leaning against his shoulder.
When the hymn began and everyone stood, the man turned around as if to check and see how many people had come. Lucy was astonished to recognize Jonathan Franke.
As the hymn droned on, Lucy struggled to make sense of this new development. Perhaps he was simply an old friend who had put aside his dislike of the deceased to offer support to Ellie. Or perhaps, thought Lucy, he was taking advantage of the death of a hated rival to advance his own case as a suitor. The final amen sounded and Lucy wrestled with a vague sense of guilt. Here she was in church and all she could think of was sex and murder.
“Let us pray,” began the minister, a stocky, white-haired man with a ruddy complexion, and Lucy took the opportunity to check out her fellow mourners.
Just a few rows behind Ellie she saw Chuck Canaday and Andy Brown, along with Joe Marzetti. Ah, she thought rather cynically, the business community. Never ones to alienate customers, they showed up at almost every funeral.
On the other side of the narrow aisle she spotted a few more members of the board of selectmen: Sandy Dunlap and Bud Collier. There was no sign of Pete Crowley or Howard White; even this prime opportunity to win some votes had not been attractive enough to overcome their dislike of Nolan. She didn’t see Fred Rumford either, even though he could have used the funeral as an occasion to bridge the widening gap between the museum and the tribe. Perhaps knowing he was a suspect, he hadn’t wanted to draw attention to himself.
Listening with half an ear to the minister, Lucy followed her own thoughts. Maybe the absentees had been afraid of appearing hypocritical, since they had all had their differences with Nolan. Personally, Lucy thought they were mistaken. By attending the funeral they could have shown respect for Nolan and for the Metinnicut people.
A sudden increase in the noise level from the crowd outside drew Lucy’s attention and she decided she’d better see what was going on. She tiptoed to the door and, opening it as little as possible, slipped through. Once outside on the stoop she paused, horrified.
Dozens of police officers in full riot gear were advancing on the demonstrators with raised shields and batons. At first the demonstrators stood fast, huddling together in passive resistance behind their leader, Bear Sykes. Then a sound like a shot was heard.
Lucy was never convinced it actually was a gunshot; she thought it was probably a backfire from a passing car. Whatever it was, it had the effect of terrifying the crowd of demonstrators, who suddenly broke ranks and began running for safety, pursued by police officers through the churchyard and adjacent cemetery. Sykes remained in place, vainly calling for order, until he was collared himself and led to a cruiser.
Lucy watched in dismay as the officers wrestled people to the ground and handcuffed them. She winced at the thwack the batons made when they connected with human flesh. She heard the screams of fear and pain. Nevertheless, she was able to remain a detached observer until she saw a young child in a familiar threadbare lavender jacket. Tiffani had apparently become lost and separated from her family and was wandering about, dazed, with tears streaming down her face.
Jumping down the stairs Lucy ran to the little girl and scooped her up in her arms.
“Hold it right there,” said a gruff voice.
Lucy froze, hugging Tiffani to her chest and patting her back. Next thing she knew she was seized roughly by the shoulders, the screaming Tiffani was torn from her arms and her wrists were restrained.
“I’m not—” she began in protest, attempting to make eye contact with her captor.
All she saw was her own face, very small, reflected in his aviator sunglasses.
“Tell it to the judge,” he said as he thrust her inside the crowded paddy wagon.
CHAPTER 17
Judge Joyce Ryerson wasn’t interested in what Lucy had to say. She tapped her long polished nails on the bench impatiently.
“How do you plead?”
“There’s been a misunderstanding.”
Receiving a warning glance from the judge, Lucy decided this was not the time to argue. “Not guilty.”
“Thank you,” said the judge, with exaggerated politeness. “You’re due back in court on December fifteenth.”
“That’s so close to Christmas,” protested Lucy.
The judge ignored her and studied a sheet of paper.
“I see no reason not to release you on your own recognizance. See the bailiff.”
She banged down her gavel and Lucy got in line behind the other accused lawbreakers at the bailiff’s desk. When it was her turn she waited while he scribbled on an official-looking form.
“That’ll be fifty dollars,” he finally said without even raising his head.
“Fifty dollars?” Lucy knew she didn’t have that much money in her wallet. She guessed she had something in the neighborhood of five dollars. “Can I write a check?”
He raised his head and lifted an
