Chapter 7Kerfuffle at a Funeral
“YOU DID WHAT?”
“I know,” I admitted as Lucas parked the car on Franklin. “It wasn’t my brightest move.”
“You could have been arrested.”
“I know,” I repeated. “I guess too many pre-Prohibition cocktails is a bad idea.”
“I guess,” he said under his breath. He got out of the car and opened the door for me.
August Nixon’s memorial service was held that Saturday, which meant that Lucas was able to play escort. We arrived at the Masonic Lodge—the Nixons weren’t churchgoers—suitably dressed in somber colors. Well, somberish. Lucas was sophisticated and elegant in a classic black suit, but the closest thing to a somber color I owned was a cobalt-blue maxi dress.
The lodge had been built in 1923 after the original building burned down, but the Masons had insisted on replicating the gorgeous nineteenth-century building, complete with front columns. It was like a mini White House perched on the side of the hill, elegant and mysterious. Or maybe that was just me.
“Are you sure about this?” Lucas asked, pausing outside the wide double doors. There was a fine mist in the air and droplets clung to his salt-and-pepper hair.
“Why? Scared?” I sniped back, starting to withdraw my hand from the crook of his arm. Why couldn’t he just be supportive?
“After last time?” he asked, refusing to let go of my hand. “Of course I am. You nearly died. Twice. I don’t relish the thought of it happening again.”
His answer mollified me. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”
He sighed but said nothing more. Really, he was sweet to worry about me, but I could handle myself.
Inside the grand lodge, chairs had been lined up facing the southern end of the room, where an enormous photo of the deceased had been set up on an easel. Massive floral arrangements drowned the floor, crowding out the wooden podium and perfuming the air. The pollen tickled my nose, and I stifled a sneeze. Great. I should have taken my allergy pills today.
People milled about, speaking in hushed tones and casting glances at the smirking picture of the dead man. Either Nixon had a lot of friends or he was in a high enough position in Astoria society that people wanted to be sure they were seen at his service. Call me cynical, but I was betting on the later. This was definitely a “see and be seen” sort of event. No one appeared terribly sad.
Eventually everyone was seated, and the service began. Various pillars of society took turns at the podium, droning on ad naseum about the wonderful qualities of the deceased. Maybe I was the only one who noticed it, but they didn’t seem to know the man very well. It was all generalities and butt-kissing interspersed with sympathetic glances at the widow. I tuned them out and focused instead on the attendees, specifically the widow and her son.
Mrs. Nixon was not a young woman, but she had that ageless sort of beauty I associated with Golden Era actresses, such as Lauren Bacall and Audrey Hepburn. She was dressed in a simple black shift that fell just below the knees, sensible but elegant black heels, and a simple strand of white pearls. To ward against the chill of the old building, she’d wrapped a gray silk shawl around her shoulders. The most ostentatious thing about her was the giant rock on her left hand. I wondered if that had been her choice or his. Wedding rings said a lot about people, in my opinion. Based on the rest of her understated outfit, I was betting the ring had been his choice and she wore it because he wanted her to, not because it was her style. I hadn’t known Nixon, but he struck me as the type who liked to flash his cash. He’d certainly enjoyed lording it over his underlings, if Portia’s stories were anything to go by.
The son looked to be in his early thirties, reasonably attractive, and not terribly thrilled to be there. Although he sat up straight, there was a slight slouch to his shoulders as if he’d like to melt off his chair and away from everything. His sandy hair tumbled into his eyes and curled over his collar, desperately in need of a trim. His suit, although expensive-looking, didn’t fit quite right, as if he’d grabbed it off the rack and hadn’t bothered with alteration.
Mother and son sat stiffly side by side, neither looking at nor touching each other. Did that mean they weren’t close? Or that they were angry with each other? Perhaps they weren’t the touchy-feely sorts, or maybe they were fighting over the will. Or what if they knew who killed Nixon!
I fidgeted through the entire service, equal parts bored and anxious. I couldn’t wait to get myself in front of Mrs. Nixon and try to worm some information out of her. Subtly, of course.
The minute the service was over, I plowed my way toward the front, Lucas trailing a bit reluctantly, albeit with some amusement. I knew he didn’t like me getting involved in a crime again, but tough cookies. It was my friend who was in trouble, and I wouldn’t stop until I’d proven her innocence.
“Mrs. Nixon,” I burst out, interrupting a middle-aged couple overdressed for the occasion. I gave them an apologetic smile and turned back to my quarry. “I am so sorry to hear about your loss.”
“Thank you.” Her tone was elegant and cultured, her expression cool and distant. Did rich people practice that look in the mirror?
I squeezed her hand in sympathy. “It must have been such a shock when the police informed you.”
“Yes.” Her expression gave nothing away.
I scrambled for something else to say. A way to ask questions without being totally obvious. Behind me, Lucas shifted, stretching his hand toward the widow.
“Mrs. Nixon. So sorry for your loss. Lucas Salvatore.”
Something in her perked up. “The Lucas Salvatore? The author?”
He had the grace to blush. “Yes. I’m afraid so.”
Although outwardly Mrs.
