by Sylvie Kurtz
"For the life of me, Melinda, I don't understand your logic." One hand on his hip, the other cutting the air to pieces, her father brought her down like a prosecutor cross-examining a witness. "You don't like funerals, you barely knew the girl, why attend at all?"
Familiar anger flared, but Melinda swallowed it and sighed with resignation. There was no point in getting herself all worked up. In her father's eyes, she was still eight and couldn't think for herself. "There's no logic in death."
"Are you all right? You look a little pale." His forehead crinkled with worry.
"I'm fine. I just haven't been sleeping well."
She'd dreamed again last night. The blotches of colors and cacophony of noises had formed into semicoherent images. Though she couldn't quite decipher their meanings, it wasn't as much the images that had caused the dark circles under her eyes, but the whirlpool of emotions that had risen from the images' depths like a flock of phoenix from the flames—the profound fear, the all-consuming anger, and mostly the heart-wrenching betrayal. She shivered at the memory of the dream that had kept her looking deep in the shadows for most of the night, even with every light blazing.
"Is that country cop bothering you?"
Her father had his attorney's voice on and Melinda couldn't help the smile. Grady was responsible for a lot of her confusion, and for her more pleasant dreams. He might even be the catalyst for her nightmares, but he wasn't the cause. "It has nothing to do with him."
"I can take care of him," her father insisted.
The determined Lieutenant had a way of making her shake with fear and tremble with desire all at once. He was opening windows and doorways she'd barred for too long. But this time, she wouldn't take the easy way out. "I can handle him myself."
At her show of autonomy, her father flinched. The movement was almost imperceptible, and after a good look into her father's frosty glare, Melinda decided she'd imagined it. Her father never flinched—not for any criminal, not for any authority, and certainly not for her.
She leaned against the open garage frame, turned her gaze to her shoes and worked the tip of one foot in a semi-circle in front of her. "Daddy, how did Mom die?"
"Don't you remember?"
Melinda shook her head, helpless in her ignorance, feeling that the blank holes in her memory had stolen an important part of her. "No, I don't."
"She died in a fire in her greenhouse."
Remembered heat from her nightmare doused her like a wave of fire. Her hand went to her heart as if it could steady its beating. Licking her dry lips, she looked up and met her father's hard gaze. "Where was I when it happened?"
Her father's gaze narrowed. "You were safe in bed where all good little girls should have been."
Was there an edge of sarcasm in his voice, or was her imagination skewing her hearing as well as her memory?
Her father cocked his head in the arrogant way she'd never liked. That attitude might be an asset in the courtroom, but as far as she was concerned, it only put a wedge between them. Why was he on the defensive?
"Why the sudden interest?" he asked tersely.
She shrugged, feeling a need to defuse her father's tension. "I don't know. Since Angela died I've had some... dreams." She played with the clasp on her purse. "I know Mom died when I was eight, but I couldn't remember, and it bothered me."
"How could you?" Her father wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "There's nothing for you to remember. The sound of the fire truck woke you up, but your nanny shielded you from the horrors of the incident. You never saw any of the flames, or your mother's body. Aunt Lorinda came right away and took you to her house until after the funeral. And when you came home, all the signs of disaster were gone. There's nothing for you to remember."
Her breath hitched in her constricted throat. All the commotion surrounding her mother's death, and leaving her imagination to fill in the details between the snatches of adult conversation she more than likely overheard, must have sparked her childhood nightmares. Had she built them up to such a feverish pitch that her mind had shut down and left blanks?
"Would you like me to make an appointment for you to talk to someone?" Her father's voice softened and he squeezed her shoulders tenderly.
"No, I'm fine." Feeling too easy tears coming up, she pushed out of his embrace. "I'm hoping if I go to the funeral, I can make peace with Angela's death. I'm hoping it'll stop the nightmares."
Her father nodded his understanding. "Maybe going to the funeral will help. Nightmares are just distortions of fears. They have nothing to do with reality."
"I know." She shrugged and ran a finger through the dirt on the back window of her old Volvo station wagon.
"Do you want me to go to the funeral with you?"
"Thanks, Daddy, but it's something I need to do on my own."
His eyebrows dipped and his mouth turned down in exaggerated hurt. "My little girl doesn't need me anymore."
Melinda hugged her father. "Yes, I do. I always will. You're the only family I have left."
"I couldn't bear to lose you after losing your mother." He hugged her back, and she felt need in the motion. She'd always thought of him as strong, as someone who didn't need anyone else. The fact he needed her to need him touched her.
"I don't remember much about Mom at all." Melinda pushed out of his arms enough to see his face. "What was she like?"
His eyes took on a far-away look, as if he'd turned the years back in his mind to a time he remembered with fondness. "You're becoming more like her every day. She was—" He stopped himself and smiled sadly. "Come by the house and we'll take out the old photo albums and have hot cocoa. Just like the old days."
"I'd like that." Her father's mellow moods didn't come often, but were precious moments to treasure. Their shared evenings of cocoa and stories were her fondest childhood memories. "You loved her very much, didn't you?"
"More than she ever understood."
The pained look on her father's face brought a lump to her throat. She glanced at her watch. "I have to go."
"Melinda?"
"Yes, Daddy."
He shook his head slowly. "Nothing. I'll see you soon."
As Melinda got in her car, she had the feeling her father had left something important unsaid, and that wasn't like him at all.
* * *
Melinda took a seat in the last pew and watched as most of Fargate's residents crowded into the small church. Lieutenant Sloan, in full dress uniform, stood at attention at the church's ornate front door. His quiet stance didn't fool Melinda for an instant. His sharp gaze scrutinized the massed population, searching, analyzing, watching.
His gaze met hers, lingered, then returned to its methodical observation. The thump of pleasure in her chest at seeing him surprised her. The instant muddling of her senses unnerved her. And though she was keenly aware of every movement he made, Melinda forced herself to look at anything but him.
In contrast to the tears being shed inside the church, the sun streamed through the stained glass windows, dappling Angela's white coffin in a rainbow of colors. The Reverend Harold Hobart outdid himself. Never had a service been so moving. By the end of the eulogy, not a dry eyes remained in the church. After the service, in a grim procession down Prairie View Drive, the whole congregation followed the hearse the three blocks to the Fargate Cemetery.
As the last prayer faded on the stiff breeze, the grieving mass broke apart and slowly dispersed. Loathe, it seemed, to leave their beloved daughter, their little sister, in the dark ground all alone, the Hobart family, a sobbing black cloud huddled under the maroon canopy, remained in place. Melinda wound her way through the crowd toward them.
Just outside the family's circle, Kerry, Angela's best friend, dabbed at her eyes with a wet tissue. The two girls' giggles had often drifted on the breeze to her garden. Impulsively, she wrapped an arm around her. "I'm so sorry for your loss."
"I just can't believe she's gone, you know." Kerry shook her head.
"I can'
t either. I already miss her laughter."
A soggy smile lit Kerry's tear-reddened face. "She sure could laugh. I don't think I've ever seen her cry, except when Tommy Lee left her. I don't know why she married him in the first place. He was all wrong for her."
"The heart doesn't always understand logic." Her gaze, as if it had a mind of its own, sought Grady's form, walking toward her along the fringes of the thinning crowd.
When he reached them, Grady acknowledged Melinda's presence, then turned back to Kerry. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
Fresh tears streamed down Kerry's plump face, melting her makeup into dirty smears. Her sodden tissue couldn't absorb the moisture; it only spread the wetness until Kerry's cheeks glistened in wide ovals. Melinda fished in her purse and handed her a fresh one.
"Thanks. I'm sorry."
"Don't be," Melinda said.
"It's all right," Grady said. "You and Angie have been good friends for a long time."
Kerry nodded, swiping the tissue beneath her eyes. "I've known Angie since we were in kindergarten."
"Was she seeing anyone?" Grady asked in a low voice.
Melinda's head snapped up. She threw Grady a questioning gaze. What in the world was he doing? Questioning Angie's best friend at the funeral? There was a time and place for such things, and this wasn't it.
Leave her alone, she mouthed.
Over Kerry's head, he silently cautioned her not to interfere. "Did she have a boyfriend?"
"No, not really." Kerry sniffed and touched her tissue to the corners of her eyes once more. "Not unless you count Mike. Tommy Lee's leaving hit her hard. Mike's been a good friend to her." She blew into the tissue. "I'm sorry, Grady, but losing Angie was like losing a sister."
"I know." His tone was soothing, yet firm. "How serious was it between Mike and Angie?"
"It wasn't anything like what you think. Mike has this band, you see. Angie liked his sound, and he liked her voice. He works at Halloran's ice-cream shop during the day, but that's just to pay the bills. His heart's in the gigs he plays at night with his country band."
This was ridiculous. Couldn't Grady see how hard this was on Kerry? What was he up to? What did he hope to get from her?
Kerry shredded the wet tissues in her hand. The bits stuck like dandruff to the skirt of her simple black dress. "Angie was going to be his ticket to the big times with her voice. Angie, well, she was kinda torn between loving to sing and the promise she'd made the Reverend to sing only for God. Mike was smart enough to convince her that any time and anything she sang pleased God." Kerry looked up at Melinda. "Remember when she asked you to look after Rusty about a month ago?"
Melinda nodded. She'd gladly taken care of the people-shy cat for the night Angie'd been out of town.
"Mike took her down to Austin to cut a demo. It's great. You ought to hear it." Kerry smiled, her pleasure genuine. "She truly had an angel's voice."
"Yes, she did," Melinda said.
"Old man Halloran would give Mike a hard time when Angie went there after work to wait for Mike's shift to end," Kerry continued. "Halloran didn't even have anything to complain about. Angie always bought ice cream, and Mike—well you know Mike—he's never cheated anybody out of anything, especially not a minute of work when he was getting paid for it."
"Mike's a good man," Grady said. "I didn't see him anywhere today. I would've thought he'd be at Angie's service. Have you seen him?"
Kerry shook head and brought a hand to her mouth. Her fingers shook against her lips. "He doesn't even know she's dead. He's been on the road trying to get anybody who'll give him half a chance to listen to the demo." Her eyes shone, heavy with tears again. "Oh, Grady, when he finds out, he'll be crushed." The tears sprang free. As she sought to control her sorrow, her lips trembled. "I—I've got to go."
Tissue dabbing uselessly at her tears, Kerry rushed away from them.
"Kerry!" Grady called after her.
She turned and wobbled like a top.
"That cut on your hand. How'd you get it?"
Did the man not know when to quit? Melinda wondered.
Kerry looked down at the bandage. Her face contorted with pain. As her head bobbed with the tears she tried but failed to repress, she worried the bandage with her other hand. "It was an accident. I sliced it at work when I found out about Angie."
"Let me know when you hear from Mike."
She nodded and hurried away.
"Was that necessary?" Melinda couldn't keep the crispness out of her voice.
Grady turned to face her. "There's never a proper time to talk about death."
Her hands spread wide before her. "But an interrogation right here in the cemetery?"
"It's often the best time to catch people off guard."
Melinda shook her head incredulously. "Don't you ever go off duty?"
"I'm on call twenty-four hours a day, especially when I have an unsolved murder on my caseload." His gaze strayed toward the Hobarts. He turned his blue eyes on her once more, and deep sorrow filled them. "What better gift can I give her parents than finding out who killed their daughter?"
"I'm sorry. You're right. It's just that you seemed so callous, grilling Kerry with Angie's coffin barely in the ground."
"Miss Amery!"
They both turned around to see Harold Hobart striding boldly in their direction. "Do you remember yet?" he asked, before coming to a halt. His voice cracked. "Do you remember who killed my daughter?"
Melinda's heart raced and the blood drain out of her face. Without thinking, she shrank away from him, closer to Grady. "I didn't see anything."
Reverend Hobart grabbed her arms in a tight grip and shook her. "What did you see?"
Panic ran rampant, snatching her breath away. Something flashed in her mind and she instinctively sought something solid to protect her. Her back firmly against Grady's side gave her security and the panic washed away. The reverend's unexpected charge at her had, for an instant, brought her nightmare to life.
"I'm terribly sorry." The reverend let her go and back away. "I was completely out of line. I'm—"
"I understand." Melinda's breath hissed out in one long exhalation. Gradually, her shaking subsided and her balance returned. "Your daughter's been killed. You want to find out who killed her. I swear, Reverend, if I knew, I'd tell Lieutenant Sloan. But I didn't see anything."
Contrite, the reverend bowed his head. "Angela spoke well of you. I'm certain you would do anything in your power to find her murderer. I'm sorry." He looked up again, sadness pulling at the corners of his eyes. "Will you let me know the minute your memory returns?"
"Of course. I would do anything to ease your sorrow."
Shoulders hunched, the reverend returned to his family's circle by his daughter's the freshly dug grave.
"Are you all right?" Grady asked, his arm still pressed along her spine.
Melinda turned away from his burning touch and faced him. "I'm fine. He caught me by surprise."
"It's grief."
"I know." Suddenly uncomfortable in his presence, she clutched her purse's strap. "Well, I better get back to work."
He nodded, and she moved toward the cemetery's gate. The disconcerting presence of his gaze followed her progress. It wasn't until she'd arrived back at the church and sat in her car, that she felt safe.
Her brush with her internal monster had been too close, too public. What would her father, who cherished proper appearances, think if he knew how close to falling apart she'd come?
Melinda drove aimlessly for what seemed like hours. She followed every street, studied every house in the town she'd picked as home, learning with wonder about the individual that peopled the town. She'd chosen Fargate because it was small enough for her to feel secure, yet large enough to offer a measure of anonymity. Would they have cried for her as they had for Angie? Or would her funeral have been attended only by her father's circle of influential friends?
With work being so close to her house, she'd hardly g
otten to know the people of Fargate. She shopped at odd hours to avoid crowds, or drove into Fort Worth to get lost in them.
Today, most of this small town had come out to grieve for one of their lost members. She'd felt a community in the gathered people and envied their closeness. Of the hundreds of people at the service, she'd recognized only a few faces. Even after living in Fargate for two years, she was an outsider. The thought saddened her.
She hadn't exactly set out to live a closeted life. It had seemed easier at first. Now it was simply habit. Though she felt safer here, more settled than she ever had in her life, after two years, her roots were still tentative—almost as if she expected she'd have to run, as if the broken ties she'd have to leave behind would hurt too much.
But from what exactly would she have to run?
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Melinda found herself back in her own driveway. She turned off the ignition and listened to the engine's pings as it cooled.
She'd waited too long for a life of her own. It was time to find out what her mind was hiding from her.
* * *
Grady had promised her breathing space, but he didn't give her any space at all. Where she'd never noticed him before Angela's murder, Melinda now saw him everywhere she went.
During the day, she tried to lose herself in her work, and found her mind constantly drifting toward him. At night, she imitated his style and interrogated her memory, questioned her nightmares, analyzed the images and sounds drifting invited into her mind, careful to skirt the monster's cage. She needed to build a little more courage for that.
A trip to the Fort Worth library had yielded her a handful of articles about her mother's death—dry facts about the woman's who'd given her birth and left her much too early. She filled page after page of impressions, feelings and memories, of anything that came to her mind, hoping something, anything, would somehow ties all the tangled pieces of her jigsawed memory into a picture she could recognize.
And when she fell into an exhausted sleep every night, it was Grady who crowded her dreams.
