“Surrounded by the offerings of Spirit, we gather to honor the memory of our beloved founder, Victoria Harkness.” His voice roughens, and he pauses. He bows his head for a few seconds and says, “I’m sorry, I can’t do it. Anyone else who would like to say a few words, please come up to the mic.”
There’s some shuffling of feet, then a young man walks up to the podium. He tugs the mic down to his mouth. He’s unshaven, with a thick mop of dirty blond hair.
“Victoria changed my life,” he says. His voice booms and the speakers squeal with feedback.
Chandler steps in, clears his throat. “State your name, please. We’re making a recording of the proceedings, for anyone who wants it.” He points to the video camera positioned in the aisle.
A glare flashes across the young man’s face, but he says, “My name is Jason. I —”
“Sorry, last name too?”
“Morganstern.” He pauses. “Can I talk now?”
“Of course.” Chandler gives a wide gesture of permission and backs away.
“I started coming to the church when it first got here. I was going to another one, but this one seemed better. Victoria really saw me. She showed me I could be a real artist. And she helped me when I was looking for work.” Jason drops his gaze down to the top of the podium, and almost whispers. “I loved her.”
“Thank you, Jason. We all did.” Chandler ushers Morganstern away. A flash of belligerence twists the young man’s mouth, but he relinquishes the mic.
I wonder if Claire’s husband is going to be that rude to everyone.
“Who’s next?” Says Chandler. “Come up when you’re ready.”
The harpist twingles in the background, running her fingers up and down the strings. A couple of other people say they’d found their true calling through Victoria. Then another man stands. He has thick shoulder-length brown hair styled in an artfully disheveled wave. His eyes are dark and deep set. He, too, is unshaven, but his stubble looks decorative, whereas Jason’s looked merely unkempt.
Behind the podium, the man surveys the crowd. He’s in his thirties, white, confident in his handsomeness and presence.
“My name is Eric North. I’ve known Victoria, off and on, for most of my life.” He smiles, gaze panning the crowd. “When I first saw her, she was climbing a tree in the yard next door. I was an artist even back then, sketching all the time, and I caught her image on paper…” the rich voice goes on, describing their friendship. How he’d always been drawing and painting, and how he hoped he’d inspired Victoria in some small way in her universal message of allowing the Spirit to speak through art.
Nothing like a little self-stroking at someone else’s wake.
I consider sharing how seeing her picture on a flyer in a tavern sparked a connection that made me want to hear her message, but I don’t. It sounds too touchy-feely-culty.
Plus, public speaking.
When no one else comes forward, Daniel Chandler, self-control restored, launches into a narrative, relating how he and his wife Claire had served the church in Portland, and followed Victoria to Astoria and continued to serve here. Chandler has a pleasant voice — I can see him as preacher, or a used car salesman. I shift, wishing that the folding chair had more lumbar support. I don’t know what I thought I was going to gain by coming here, but now I’m bored, strangely let down and ready to go home. Standing unobtrusively, I ease toward the door. And there, standing near the entrance, are Detectives Olafson and Candide.
My mouth drops open. Unattractive, I know. For a split second, I think they’re here for me. For breaking into Victoria’s apartment. For impersonating a private investigator. For all the things I’ve done and wished I hadn’t.
Get a grip, Lake. It’s not always about you.
Just then, Daniel announces, “We’re now going to have a prayer vigil where her body was found. Officers of the APD will escort us and manage traffic, and stand by while we send our prayers over the water.”
I feel equal parts relief and dismay. Because now I’m going to have to go through the entire ceremony. Anything else will look suspicious.
Plus, I’m damned if I’ll let those two scare me away.
The detectives lead us outside. It’s brisk — my phone says forty-six degrees — but at least it’s not raining anymore. A sunset blaze of hot orange and yellow illuminates the western horizon as indigo suffuses the east. Olafson takes the lead. The mourners become a straggling line of singles and couples, and their candles flicker like stars in the twilight, illuminating faces but leaving eyes in shadow. Patrol officers are stationed outside, directing traffic as the candle bearers cross Marine Drive and then head west along the sidewalk.
Jane Candide takes the drag position at the rear. I stay near the middle, not wanting to encounter either of them and risk a confrontation. I am, however, keeping my eyes and ears open. The question of what happened to Victoria Harkness still burns; maybe even stronger now that I know for sure she’s dead, robbed of all options and choices. Life has meaning, and therefore, so does death. Even if we can’t suss it out completely.
People in the procession are mostly quiet. Some are crying, some holding hands or with arms around each other. No one laughs, and conversation is sporadic and soft-spoken. One or two individuals within earshot are murmuring rhythmically, perhaps praying.
We cross the street again where it turns north beyond the roundabout, and proceed in a snaking, glowing line to the Riverwalk. The framework of the Megler Bridge makes a dark lattice across the sky. Just beyond the bridge is the tiny beach, tainted now by my hallucination. I clench my hands into fists, concealed in the pockets of my coat.
The procession turns and walks along the gravel causeway to the parking lot of the Cannery Pier Hotel. The hotel
