by Sue Grafton
I found Henry’s number in the Detroit area and placed a call. It was close to 7:00 his time. He and his brothers had been home for ten minutes after a day with Nell, who’d been transferred to an in-patient recovery center.
“So how’s she doing?”
“Not bad. In fact, I’d say she’s good. She’s in a lot of pain, but she managed to sit up for an hour, and they’re teaching her to use a walker. She can’t put any weight on her leg, but she’s managing to hobble ten feet or so before she has to sit down again. What’s happening there?”
I filled him in on my shoplifter’s demise, giving him the long version just so he could appreciate how stunned I was and how stricken I felt about my lack of charity. Henry made all the appropriate clucking sounds, which alleviated my guilt to some extent. We agreed to talk in a couple of days and I hung up the phone feeling better, though not absolved. Despite my efforts to deflect the subject, the specter of Audrey Vance continued to hover at the back of my mind. I couldn’t resist the urge to brood. Granted, my connection to her was peripheral. I doubted she’d even noticed me despite our being in range of each other in the lingerie department. The younger woman was certainly aware of me, but there was no point in worrying about her. Without a license plate number, I had no way to track her down.
At 5:30, I locked the office and stopped at McDonald’s on my way home. When it comes to comfort food, nothing tops a Quarter Pounder with Cheese and a large order of fries. I made a point of asking for a diet soda to mitigate my nutritional sins. I ate in my car, which for a week afterward smelled of raw onions and fried meat.
Once home I left my Mustang in Henry’s driveway and headed for Rosie’s. I wasn’t (necessarily) interested in a glass of bad wine. I wanted familiar faces and noise, maybe even a bit of bullying if Rosie had some to spare. I wouldn’t have minded chatting with Claudia, but she didn’t make an appearance, which was probably just as well. I flirted with the notion of using William as a sounding board, but quashed the idea. While I felt a need to discuss Audrey Vance’s untimely end, I didn’t want to get him in a lather about death and dying. In the wake of Nell’s fall and his own elevated glucose, he was already feeling vulnerable. In his mind, it was a hop, skip, and a jump from the idea of death to its imminent arrival.
William was a funeral junkie, presenting himself at visitations, services, and graveside ceremonies once or twice a week. His interest was a natural extension of his obsession with his health. It didn’t matter to him whether he knew the deceased. He’d put on his three-piece suit, tuck a fresh hankie in his pocket, and set forth. Usually he walked. Several Santa Teresa mortuaries are located downtown, within a ten-block radius, which allowed him his constitutional at the same time he was seeing someone off.
I’d told him about the shoplifter when I was in on Saturday night. Under the circumstances, I didn’t think it would be wise to introduce the fact of her toppling over the rail. As it turned out, I needn’t have worried. The place was quiet, with only a scattering of patrons. Above the bar, the color television set was on, though the sound had been muted. The channel was fixed on some off-brand game show, to which no one was paying the slightest attention. There was none of the usual background music coming through the speakers and the energy level seemed flat.
Henry’s table was empty. One of the day drinkers sat alone in a booth, sipping a whiskey neat. Rosie was perched on a stool at the far end of the bar folding white cloth napkins. A young couple appeared in the doorway, checked the menu posted on the wall, and quickly withdrew. William was behind the bar, leaning forward on his elbows, a ballpoint pen in hand. I thought he might be working on a crossword puzzle until I saw Audrey’s photo in the middle of the page. He’d circled three names, hers among them, and underscored the last few lines of the relevant obituaries.
I perched on a stool and peered over the bar. “What are you doing?”
“Working on my short list.”
I meant to keep my mouth shut but I couldn’t help myself. “Remember the shoplifter I told you about?” I pointed to Audrey’s photograph. “That’s her.”
“Her?”
“Uh-hun. She threw herself off the Cold Spring Bridge.”
“Oh, my. I read about that, but had no idea she was the one. Did the paper mention her by name?”
“ID was withheld pending notification of the next of kin,” I said. “I didn’t see the article at all until someone told me where to look.”
He tapped his pen on the paper. “That settles it. There’s a scheduling conflict so I can’t attend all three of these anyway. Audrey Vance it is. You’ll be going, of course.”
“Absolutely not. I didn’t know the woman.”
“Nor did I, but that’s hardly the point.”
“What is the point?”
“Seeing she gets a proper send-off. It’s the least we can do.”
“You’re a total stranger. Don’t you think it’s bad form?”
“But they don’t know that. I’ll make it clear we weren’t terribly close and therefore I can be more objective about her unfortunate choice. With a suicide, family members are often at a loss. It will help if they can talk about the situation with someone and who better than me? Surely there are details they wouldn’t share with friends. You know how it is. A veil of privacy descends. I’m both dispassionate and sympathetic. They’ll appreciate the opportunity to sort through their feelings, especially when they learn I’m an old hand at this.”
The way William described it, I was inclined to agree.
“What if they ask how you knew her?”
His tone was incredulous. “At a funeral? How rude. The right to pay one’s respects isn’t reserved solely for the next of kin. If someone’s gauche enough to inquire, I’ll tell them we were distant acquaintances.”
“So distant you never met.”
“This is a small town. How can anyone be sure our paths didn’t cross half a dozen times?”
I said, “Well, don’t go on my account. I didn’t even know her name until this morning.”
“What’s the difference?” he asked. “You should join me. We could make an afternoon of it.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. Too ghoulish for my taste.”
“What if her criminal confederate is there? I thought you were interested in tracking her down.”
“Not now,” I said. “I’m convinced she was involved, but I don’t have a shred of proof, so what’s it to me?”
“Don’t be callous. Audrey’s accomplice bears some responsibility for her demise. I should think you, of all people, would want to see justice done.”
“What justice? I saw Audrey shoplift, but I didn’t see the other gal steal anything. Even if I did, it would still be her word against mine. The salesclerk at Nordie’s didn’t have a clue there were two of them.”
“Maybe the accomplice was picked up on one or more of the store’s security cameras. You could have them print a still shot and take it to the police.”
“Trust me, the loss-prevention officer won’t invite me in to review the tapes. I’m not even law enforcement. Besides, from his perspective, it’s the store’s business, not mine.”
“Don’t be stubborn. If the second woman showed up at the funeral home, you could follow her. If she shoplifted once, she’s bound to do it again. You could catch her in the act.”
He pulled out the jug of bad wine and poured me a glass.
I considered his proposal, remembering the younger woman’s failed attempt to run me down. It would be satisfying to see the look on her face if the two of us turned up at the same place. “What makes you think she’ll be there?”
“It just stands to reason. Imagine the guilt she must feel. Her friend Audrey is dead. I should think she’d put in an appearance to appease her conscience, if nothing else. You could do the same.”
“My conscience doesn’t bother me. Who said it did?”
William arched a brow as he screwed the cap on the jug. “Far be it from me.”
>
8
Tuesday morning I skipped my run. The pain in my bruised shin felt worse, but that wasn’t my excuse. The visitation for Audrey Vance was scheduled for 10:00 A.M. If I went into the office early, I’d have time to make a few calls and open mail before I had to break away. I brushed my teeth, showered, and washed my hair, after which I took my all-purpose black dress out of the closet and gave it a shake. Nothing dropped on the floor and skittered away so I thought I was safe in assuming insects hadn’t taken up residence. I inspected the dress, turning it this way and that on the hanger. There was dust on both shoulders and I brushed that away. No buttons missing, no split seams, and no dangling threads. The fabric in this garment is wholly synthetic, probably a petroleum derivative that will one day be pulled off the market owing to its newly discovered carcinogenic properties. In the meantime, it never wrinkles, never shows dirt, and never looks out of date, at least to my untutored eye.
At the office, I accomplished what I could in the brief time allotted. At 9:30, I locked up and drove back to my neighborhood. William, sharply dressed in one of the more somber of his three-piece suits, was waiting outside Rosie’s when I swung by to pick him up. Now that he was “pre-diabetic,” he’d affected a cane, a handsome ebony affair with a thick rubber tip. We did the crosstown drive in a little less than ten minutes.
There were only two other cars on hand when we pulled into the side lot at Wynington-Blake Mortuary: Burials, Cremation, and Shipping, Serving All Faiths. I chose a spot at random. William could hardly contain himself. As soon as I shut down the engine, he hopped out and approached the entrance with a jaunty step, which he corrected moments later when he remembered his condition. I took my time locking the car, wishing I hadn’t come. The facade of the building was blank. All the window openings on the ground floor had been bricked up, and I could feel a creeping claustrophobia before I’d even set foot inside.
Wynington-Blake occupies what was formerly a substantial single-family home. The spacious entry hall now served as a communal corridor, from which seven viewing rooms opened up, each capable of seating as many as a hundred people in folding chairs. Each room had been given a suitably funereal name: Serenity, Tranquility, Meditation, Eternal Rest, Sojourner, the Sunrise Chapel, and the Sanctuary. These rooms had probably once been a front parlor, a living room, a dining room, a library, a billiard room, and a large paneled study. An easel had been placed outside of Tranquility and Meditation, and I was guessing the others were unoccupied.
As we entered, the funeral director, Mr. Sharonson, greeted William warmly. William mentioned Audrey’s name and was directed to Meditation, where her viewing was taking place. In a low tone, Mr. Sharonson said to William, “Mr. Striker just arrived.”
William said, “The poor fellow. I’ll have a word with him and see how he’s doing.”
“Not well, I’d say.”
As though part of a receiving line, I stepped forward and Mr. Sharonson and I shook hands. I’d encountered him three or four times during the past six years, though I couldn’t remember ever seeing him outside the current context. He held my hand briefly, perhaps thinking I was there to mourn a loved one.
In the corridor outside Meditation, there was a wooden podium holding an oversize ledger, where one was expected to sign in. The pages were largely blank. Since we’d been so prompt, only one other person had arrived ahead of us. I watched as William stepped forward and dashed off his signature, after which he dutifully printed his name and added his address. I supposed this bit of information was meant for the family so they could send out acknowledgments at a later date. Surely, such lists aren’t sold to telemarketers who call you up at the dinner hour, thus ruining your appetite.
The person who’d signed in ahead of William was a Sabrina Striker, probably the daughter or the sister of Audrey’s fiancé. The address she’d listed was local. Her handwriting was so small, I marveled it was legible at all. I stood, pen in hand, reluctant to announce my presence since I had no real business being there in the first place. On the other hand, refusing to sign in seemed surly. I wrote my name under William’s and when I reached the space meant for my address, I left a blank. On a table nearby there was a stack of printed programs that bore Audrey’s name. William took one and went into the viewing room with an air of familiarity. No telling how many times he’d been here to offer his condolences at the passing of someone he’d never met. I picked up a program and followed.
I’d attended a visitation in this very room six years before when a man named John Daggett had drowned in the surf. Not much had changed … for him, at any rate. To the right, a sofa and several wing chairs had been set in a semicircle, suggesting an informal living room. The color palette was a wash of mauves, grays, and drab greens. The upholstery was neutral, perhaps selected with an eye to its blending with the other furnishings. There were two sets of tasteful drapes at windows I knew had no outside view. Table lamps provided a suggestion of warmth that might otherwise have come from sunlight.
The tone of the interior was appropriate for any faith, which is to say, stripped of religious symbolism or sacred ornamentation. Even an atheist would have felt right at home. A wooden accordion door had been drawn across the room, bisecting it. With so few in attendance, the fully expanded space would have been disheartening.
To the left, three rows of folding chairs had been arranged in a staggered fashion to allow a view from every seat, probably for purposes of the service to follow in the afternoon. There were two enormous urns filled with gladioli that I later realized were fake. I picked up the scent of carnations, though that might have been the result of a judicious spraying with a room deodorant. A floral wreath had been placed on either side of the mahogany casket, which was closed. The four-hundred-foot drop must have left Audrey Vance in a tattered state of repose.
William had assessed the situation and quickly fixed his attention on a fellow seated in the front, his head bowed, weeping quietly into a handkerchief. This had to be Marvin Striker. A young woman in a white T-shirt and dark blue blazer sat to his right. When William sat down in the folding chair on his left, Striker pulled himself together and wiped his eyes. William placed a consoling hand on his arm and offered a few remarks that were apparently well received. Striker introduced William to the woman sitting next to him and the two shook hands. I had no idea what he’d said, but both Striker and the young woman turned to look at me. Striker nodded briefly. He was neatly dressed in a dark two-piece suit, a man in his midsixties, clean-shaven and balding with a selvage of closely clipped gray hair. His eyebrows were dark, suggesting that his hair had once been dark as well. He wore rimless glasses, with thin metal stems. I hoped William wouldn’t insist on introducing me. I was still half expecting to be grilled about my connection with the deceased.
I took a seat in the last of the three rows, the only occupant in the line of seats on either side of the aisle. The temperature was on the chilly side and I picked up the hum of organ music so faint I couldn’t identify the melody. I was ill at ease, feeling all the more conspicuous because I was alone and had nothing to occupy my time. I opened my program and read the text, disappointed to discover it was a word-for-word duplication of the obituary I’d read the day before.
Audrey’s photograph was also the same, except this one was in color while the one in the newspaper was in black-and-white. She looked good for a woman of sixty-three. Her face had been smoothed by sufficient tasteful cosmetic work to take ten years off her age. Gone was the furrow between her brows, taking with it the “mad” or “sad” expressions that women are persuaded to erase. Better the blank, unmarked visage that bespeaks calm and eternal youth. Her hair was a darker shade than the blond I’d seen at Nordstrom’s, though the style was the same, short and brushed away from her face. She was nicely made up. Her smile revealed good teeth, but not so uniform as to suggest caps. She wasn’t that heavy, but she was short, probably five two or so, which meant that every extra pound counted against her.
>
The newspaper had cropped the photograph to a head-and-shoulders shot. What I saw here was the loose-fitting, claret-colored velvet jacket she wore. Her necklace was clearly costume jewelry, a strand of big stones that made no pretense of being precious. The glittering red clutch she held was shaped like a sleeping cat and looked like the very pricy handbag I’d seen at Nordstrom’s locked in a glass display case. Snitching it would have been quite the accomplishment.
The formal ceremony, spelled out on the facing page, had been reduced to a bare minimum: an invocation, two hymns, and remarks by a Reverend Anderson, with no church affiliation specified. I was unclear on the protocol. Was there a Rent-a-Reverend agency for folks who weren’t members of a proper congregation? I was worried William would want to attend the service and I was already casting about for an excuse.
The young woman sitting beside Striker said something to him and then rose from her seat. She left the room as though on tiptoe, wafting lily-of-the-valley cologne as she passed me and proceeded down the aisle. William was still engaged in an earnest conversation with Striker. What could he possibly have to say to him?
I risked a glance at the door, fearful that Audrey’s many nieces and nephews would appear, determined to make nice by chatting with the visitors, namely me. Aside from William and Audrey’s fiancé, there was not another soul in the room. It dawned on me that if her shoplifting accomplice appeared, I’d be the first person she’d see. I eased the program into my shoulder bag, slipped out of my folding chair, and went in search of a ladies’ room.
