by Ali Brandon
“Yeah, well, next time you think I’ve turned into some sort of deranged ex-cop with a vendetta, how about you ask me about it first?”
She said it without rancor, however. Darla felt her earlier uneasiness lighten, while her death grip on the steering wheel loosened.
“And if it makes you feel any better,” Jake added, “when I found out you were the one inheriting Dee’s estate, I went ahead and had an old friend of mine in Records run your name, just to make sure you were legit.”
When Darla did a little sputtering of her own, Jake grinned.
“Kinda pinches, that shoe on the other foot, eh? But we all decided that you were about the most boring person we’ve ever run, so I was pretty sure that Dee knew what she was doing. Now, you wanna call it even, and we’ll move on?”
“Even,” Darla agreed with a smile and no little sense of relief.
They drove on for a while, then Jake announced, “Okay, that’s out of the way, let’s plan how we’re going to handle this funeral. I know the reason you’re going is to pay your respects, but you might as well take advantage of the opportunity. It might sound like a cliché, but you’d be surprised at how often killers show up at their victims’ funerals.”
Then, when Darla shot her an alarmed look—killer?—Jake gave a wry shrug.
“I’m not saying that I think Valerie was murdered, but let’s cover all the bases. Look around, see who’s there, and listen to the gossip. You never know, someone might fling themselves on Valerie’s coffin and admit to doing the deed.”
They stopped for a brief lunch once they got out of the city; then, switching places so that Jake was driving and Darla was sitting in the back, they hit the road again.
It was a quarter to two when they pulled up in front of the Episcopal church: an elegant, white-stoned edifice complete with bell tower and cross, and set well back from the road in the midst of a manicured green lawn. A curved drive led from the street to a small parking lot along one side of the building. Darla could see a sleek black hearse and two limousines idling under the distant portico, but further vehicles were blocked from joining them by a row of oversized orange cones.
All this meant that the mourners had to hike the distance from curb to church. Shiny new Jaguars, Bentleys, Porsches, and BMWs made up most of the vehicles discharging passengers there at the gated front walk, though Darla also noticed a couple of Rolls-Royces purring past. She saw, as well, that a large wooden podium manned by half a dozen crisply uniformed young men had been set up along the curb. As each new group of mourners piled out, their respective drivers were pointed toward a nearby lot where they could await their employers’ return. For those mourners slightly lower down the food chain—meaning they had driven themselves—one of those youths promptly leaped behind the wheel of the empty car and drove it off to a second location.
“Valet parking at a funeral,” Darla murmured in amazement, wondering if one was supposed to tip in such circumstances and feeling slightly smug that she had a driver of her own.
Jake grinned. “That’s the Hamptons for you.”
Darla pinned on her oversized hat again as Jake pulled into line with the rest and waited their turn. She noticed a couple of local police cars prowling the winding road, no doubt dispatched to hustle away any paparazzi, fans, or Lord’s Blessing Church protesters who might have learned the location of the service. For the moment, however, it appeared that the destination remained a secret. The only black garb she spied was the fashionable funeral attire worn by the parade of wealthy guests.
As they reached the valet stand, a young man rushed to Darla’s side to open her door.
“Enjoy hobbing with the nobs, kid,” Jake told her as she climbed out. “And if you see anyone there you think I should meet”—she pulled her glasses down to her nose and waggled her brows meaningfully—“send me a text.”
Darla adjusted her veil so that it caught on her chin and draped the shawl over her shoulders before starting down the walk toward the church. Ahead of her, a sixtyish man in a black suit was escorting a paper-thin blonde less than half his age who could have been a model. Darla was pleased to see that the young woman wore a black wrap dress similar to Darla’s own, though hers had a stand-up white collar and was hemmed a good foot shorter than Darla’s knee-length outfit. She suspected, however, that the model’s dress was also worth twenty times the cost of Darla’s sensible knit, which she had found on sale for less than a hundred dollars.
Her feet in the unaccustomed heels had already begun to ache by the time she reached the broad marble staircase leading up to the church’s pair of arched wooden doors. She thought longingly of the running shoes she’d left behind in the car, but she knew too well that the fashion of pairing that footwear with formal wear had gone out with the eighties.
Several other guests already were gathered, waiting to enter. The promised security was there, too: two beefy, black-suited men situated on either side of the massive entry. Darla didn’t need a second look to recognize one of them. Everest stood with a clipboard in hand as he marked off the names of each arrival.
“Ms. Pettistone,” Everest greeted her with professional pleasure when it was her turn to give her name. “It’s good to see you again, ma’am, despite the circumstances. Let me see if you’re on the list.”
Frowning, he scanned his clipboard and then shook his head. “John,” he called to his cohort, “check to see if Ms. Pettistone is on your list.”
The other man obediently scrutinized his paper before shaking his head as well. “She’s not on it.”
“I’m not?” Darla stared at Everest in consternation, feeling herself blush behind her veil. She’d never in her life gatecrashed an event, but now it appeared she was on the verge of doing just that. “I don’t understand. Hillary Gables promised that she would add my name.”
“I’m sure she did, Ms. Pettistone,” came Everest’s diplomatic reply.
Unspoken were the words, Yeah, that’s what they all say, lady.
Her blush deepening, she went on, “Seriously, Everest, I talked to Hillary not two days ago. She’s the one who gave me directions. She even said she’d look out for me just in case there was a problem. Maybe I can pop into the church and find her so she can come back out and vouch for me?”
Everest shook his head, his diamond earring sparkling in the afternoon sun.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, ma’am. If it was just me, I’d let you right in, but I have orders from the family to stick to the list. I hope you understand.”
“How about if I wait here in case Hillary notices I’m not inside and comes looking for me?” Darla persisted, biting back the few choice words for the agent that threatened. How could Hillary let her come all the way out here from Brooklyn, only to forget to put her on the list? And how was she supposed to do the look-and-listen routine that Jake had assigned her if she couldn’t even get past the door?
The bodyguard glanced at the Rolex on one beefy wrist and then nodded. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt if you stood here for a few minutes, at least until the service starts. But I do ask that you step aside so that the other guests can pass by.”
“Sure.”
Darla stepped aside and pretended she had come out of the church for a breath of fresh air. If not for the circumstances, she might have enjoyed the wait. The afternoon breeze coming off the Atlantic Ocean was just cool enough to offset the sun, and she was in the center of more greenery than she’d seen since she moved to Brooklyn. A veritable meadow stretched before her, the meticulously manicured lawn as carefully maintained as any golf course. Across the distant street, she could see where all the valet cars were parked. They appeared arranged in order of retail value, with the Rollses up front, and the other cars behind.
As for the guests, their numbers at the door had increased dramatically. Darla recognized a couple of B-list film stars and even one controversial radio personality among them, as well as several faces from the publishing industry that she had se
en in various trade magazines. She glanced at her non-Rolex and saw it was but a couple of minutes to two. Was one always fashionably late, even to a funeral, in the world of the rich?
As unobtrusively as she could, she pulled out her phone and texted Jake. Not on list, Security won’t let me in. What 2 do?
A reply popped up almost immediately: Sneak in with someone else?
Can’t, she typed back. Hat’s 2 big.
Lose it!!!!!
Darla glanced around. The crowd at the door was growing, so that it looked more like the line outside a popular club than a gathering of mourners. John and Everest were busy going over their lists, and someone had finally propped open the immense arched doors to better accommodate the flow. She looked around one last time for Hillary but didn’t see her. It’s now or never, she told herself.
As casually as she could, she reached up hands that suddenly were trembling and unpinned her hat. Tucking the lavish headwear beneath her arm, she pulled up her shawl like a mantilla. Now, it covered her red hair and draped over her shoulders, concealing the hat as well. The result harkened back to the old-school Catholic-lady look she remembered from her childhood, but it would serve to disguise her, at least until she got inside the church. What she needed to do was find someone—preferably male, older, and very nearsighted—who’d already been checked off the list. Then she could latch onto him and slip past the door right under Everest’s nose.
With a bit of genteel shoving, she made her way into the center of the crowd. Directly ahead of her was a man who, at least from the back, looked like a perfect candidate to serve as her shield. He was tall and thin and dressed in the requisite black, so that his shock of white hair appeared even whiter. Best of all, he appeared to be alone.
She pressed in closer behind him, keeping her head tilted downward so that the shawl concealed her face from either side. Not satisfied with that, she hunched her shoulders and sank into herself a little, hoping to present a more convincing silhouette that might pass for the old fellow’s wife. He had reached the front of the line now, and she could feel her heart pounding with nervous anticipation as she crowded closer still to him.
Despite herself, she jumped as she heard Everest’s familiar rumble. “My apologies, sir, you shouldn’t have stood in line out here. Please, step right in.”
She took this as her cue and reached forward to grasp the man by one thin but surprisingly sinewy arm. “Let’s go inside, dear,” she said before he could protest. Using him as a veritable human screen in front of her, she hustled the unresisting man past the bodyguard and into the church’s dim foyer.
She expected to feel Everest’s beefy hand closing over her shoulder at any instant, but a glance back showed that he was already distracted by the next person in line. Her subterfuge had worked! Now, all that was left to do was unload the old geezer and find a seat for herself in the main sanctuary.
“I hope you’ll forgive me,” she began, letting go of his sleeve so she could put her hat back on and resettle her shawl back on her shoulders where it belonged. “I’ve been waiting for Hillary Gables and she seems to have been delayed, so I’m afraid I took advantage and slipped past security with you.”
“I quite understand. Ms. Gables is not the most . . . dependable of people.”
The voice was far younger than she’d expected, and she glanced up in surprise. He had turned now to look at her, and she saw that he was not an old man after all. He was gauntly handsome and likely no older than she. It was the hair that had fooled her, hair that was preternaturally white-blond. But more odd was the fact that something about him—perhaps it was his pale blue eyes—seemed vaguely familiar.
“I’m sorry, have we met?” she asked, putting out her hand. “I’m Darla Pettistone. I knew Valerie, uh, professionally. Were you a friend of hers?”
He gave her a faint smile, and the first thing that struck her was that his smooth forehead did not reflect that change in expression. The second thing she noticed as he lightly clasped her hand was that he wore a heavy gold puzzle ring on one long finger.
“I’m Morris Vickson,” she heard him say. “Valerie’s brother. Her twin brother.”
Darla stared at him for a long moment through her veil, even as she murmured the appropriate words of sympathy. All the while, however, one thought was swirling through her mind, a realization at once unbelievable and patently obvious. There was no question about it—Valerie’s brother Morris was, in reality . . . Mavis!
NINETEEN
IF THIS PARTICULAR MEMORIAL SERVICE HAD BEEN A scene in one of Valerie Baylor’s books, the woman in the coffin would have suddenly opened her dead blue eyes wide as Darla stared down at her. No one else in the church would have noticed, of course, nor would they have seen the woman grasp her wrist in unrelenting cold fingers or heard the words meant only for Darla’s ears.
We fooled you all, Mavis and I, didn’t we?
Darla abruptly drew back from the casket, that fleeting lapse into imagination a bit too real for comfort. But Valerie’s eyes with their dusting of taupe shadow remained closed, and her slim hands remained demurely crossed just above her waist. What appeared to be the same red fountain pen as in her poster was tucked between her fingers, as if she’d drifted to sleep while dashing off a page of her latest manuscript. Minus the scorn, and with coral lipstick rather than the typical slash of red, she looked softer and far more pensive in death than Darla remembered her.
Indeed, for the first time, she actually felt more than the obligatory polite regret for the woman’s passing.
She hadn’t intended to go up to the front for the ritual up-close-and-personal look. In fact, she was surprised to even see the open casket in church, since James had told her that it wasn’t a typical practice for this denomination. Besides, she’d already seen Valerie lying dead in the street, and that image would be with her for some time. But Morris had politely insisted on walking her up to the line of mourners who were paying their respects at the open casket, so she’d not had a choice in the matter.
Now, feeling self-conscious, she turned to make a quick retreat. Valerie had rated a full house, and with all the black in evidence Darla was reminded of the ill-fated book signing. She spied an open seat near the back of the church and headed toward it, grateful for the small concealment provided by her hat and veil. Not that she’d technically done anything wrong, she assured herself. Hillary had said she was invited, and it was hardly her fault that the woman had not bothered to update the list.
She passed by the front row, where Valerie’s family were sitting. A tiny woman in her sixties with dyed black hair and sharp features sat between Morris and a nattily dressed gentleman about her same age. Darla swiftly identified the older couple as Valerie and Morris’s parents. The man had that same Thin White Duke look going on as his son, while the woman bore a striking resemblance to the dead author. The rest of the pew and the one behind it held what were presumably various aunts, uncles, and cousins, each face reflecting genteel sorrow.
A few rows back, she finally spied the agent. Hillary Gables had pinned back her hair into one of those eyebrow-lifting buns on top of her head and wore a black skirted suit with a white blouse. As Darla watched, Hillary dabbed at her eyes and nose with a tissue, the gesture of courteous grief. She didn’t notice Darla, perhaps because she had leaned in the opposite direction to whisper into the ear of a man old enough to have been her grandfather.
Except Darla was pretty certain that no decent grandfather allowed his granddaughter’s hands to linger where Hillary was letting them wander.
Darla didn’t see Koji anywhere. Apparently, the publicist hadn’t made the cut, either. Or maybe he had, Darla wryly thought, and right now he was pounding the pavement looking for a new job instead of—as Jake had put it—hobbing with the nobs.
It was with relief that she finally slipped into a seat. On her right was a thirty-something man large enough to be a linebacker for a major league team, and judging by the abundance of diamond
jewelry on his hands and earlobes, likely was. On her other side was a woman in her eighties who had bucked the black trend by wearing what appeared to be a vintage Chanel suit in deep forest green. Balanced on her spindly knees was a purse that Darla recognized from a recent newspaper article on fashion as retailing for four figures. Both pew-mates gave her polite nods as she settled in, but Darla could feel their mutual if unspoken question: How did she get in here?
As unobtrusively as she could, Darla pulled her cell phone out of her bag and typed out a quick text to Jake.
Snuck in with VB’s bro. Ur not going 2 believe who he is!
Darla hit send; then, as she tried to think the best way to explain the situation in text speak—Mavis = Morris = Val’s bro?—a sharp poke in her side made her gasp. The poker was the elderly woman beside her, who’d apparently noticed her etiquette transgression of texting in church and did not approve. As Darla rubbed her bruised ribs and contemplated battery charges, the woman pierced her with a condemning look and gave an audible tsk.
Darla gave her an equally condemning look in return. “I beg your pardon, I’m a surgeon,” she lied in a stern stage whisper. “I have to check in with the hospital. I’ve got a transplant patient waiting on me.”
The old woman appeared mollified by this explanation, for her sour expression thawed slightly. Satisfied she had gained herself a bit of credibility, Darla settled back in the hard wooden pew and put her phone away without sending another message. She still needed time, herself, to wrap her brain around the apparent fact that Mavis the makeup artist and Morris the grieving brother were one and the same person.
What took her aback more than anything else was the fact that his introduction of himself had been straightforward, with no indication that they’d met before. Thus good manners, if nothing else, kept her from blurting out that she definitely recalled him—or, at least, Mavis—from that unfortunate event. But surely he remembered her from the bookstore, especially since she had given him her name. She’d expected a wink or a knowing smile. Instead, he’d acted as if they were strangers meeting for the first time.
