Frida in her casket presided over them all, like a princess in a fairy tale, sentenced to sleep for a century, or for a lifetime, or for the space of time that it took for someone to figure out that she’d been poisoned with an apple. She was a golden ray of sunshine lighting the room, just as she’d been when he’d last seen her, wearing a yellow dress and begging for her life.
This church had its own graveyard. He knew this because he’d kept USGS topographic maps of all of Memphis, ever since he learned that they showed the locations of cemeteries, old and new. America’s woodlands were speckled with abandoned graveyards and he loved the poetry of leaving a new corpse among the old ones. It was one of his favorite disposal strategies. Once he realized that Frida would be buried in a graveyard that was a century and a half old, nothing could have kept him from detouring to see it.
He arrived at the funeral early, so that he could park at the graveyard’s secluded lot, barely a quarter mile past the church, and give himself a personal tour. He was in ecstasy as he strolled the unpaved woodland path that led from the road to the graveyard. From there, another path, stone-paved, would take him from the graveyard to the church, but first he wanted to soak it all in.
It was an enchanted place where they would be leaving Frida, an old, old burying ground encircled by massive trees and an elaborate wrought-iron fence. A tall granite obelisk stood at the very center, surrounded by a handful of above-ground crypts, one of them large enough to accept at least a half-dozen members of an affluent family. Its door stood askew and he longed to open it wide, laying eyes on a century of rot.
But Frida was not being buried in a rich woman’s mausoleum. A rectangular hole waited for her.
Someone had dug Frida’s grave with a machine. He would gladly have done it for her with his own hands. Her grave was surrounded by flower arrangements on flimsy wire stands. He reached out to one of them and plucked the tiniest possible sprig of baby’s breath, delicate and perfect. It rested in his pocket now.
With the flower as his hidden talisman, he walked the stone path leading to the church, knowing that he would find Faye Longchamp-Mantooth there.
And he did. She was waiting for him and she had dressed appropriately. If his luck held, he could snatch her in the aftermath of the somber ceremony, while she was still wearing a dress, pristine and so black that the blood wouldn’t even show.
Chapter Thirty-five
Flowers. There were flowers everywhere.
Faye didn’t imagine that Frida had known many people with money to spare, yet there were so many flowers. Garlands of flowers covered her casket. Arrangements on wire stands stood in the corners of the room where mourners had gathered to view her body. She had passed through the old church’s small sanctuary to get to Frida, and it was festooned with flowers, too. Its old woodwork was an effective foil for their vibrant colors.
She had watched Kali cross the threshold into the room where her mother lay in her casket. The child had taken in a long slow breath. Then, to no one in particular, she had said, “It looks like she’s in heaven.”
Laneer had taken her by the hand and said, “She is, baby. Somewhere, your mama is walking with the angels.”
“No, she isn’t, honey,” Sylvia told her, patting the little hand she held. “She’s dancing with the angels and she’s looking down at you.”
Faye wouldn’t have expected Mayfield to own a suit, nor Linton, but either they did or they had borrowed them, and ties, too. Like Faye, they had come to this room to join the mourners gathered to say one last good-bye to Frida before her funeral. With their sober clothing and sober faces, they blended in with the other mourners. Mayfield’s body, rangy when he wore his convenience store uniform of golf-shirt and khakis, had a model’s elegance when wrapped in the wide-shouldered jacket and tapered pants of a dress suit. Linton’s jacket emphasized his burly shoulders, hung smooth over his torso, then nipped in at his narrow waist. Even his tie was black, like a streak of grief on his ironed white dress shirt. Their suits were not expensive, but youth and strength don’t require custom-tailoring to shine. It came in little glimpses, but from time to time, Faye could see what Frida had seen in these men.
Laneer, too, looked dignified in a black suit with lapels that whispered, “Nineteen-Seventies Chic.” He held Kali by the hand, and they stood amid the crowd of hovering grievers, doing their duty by greeting them one by one.
Laneer called them each by name, shaking their hands or hugging their necks, as the case may be. Time and again, he inclined his gray head and responded to whatever expression of grief or sympathy was pouring from a person’s mouth.
“It’s just so hard.”
“I don’t know what we’ll do without her.”
“I do thank you for that wonderful casserole you sent.”
Kali was too young to be expected to engage in the language of grief, so she was spared this onslaught, which must have been grueling for a man of Laneer’s age. She stood silent beside him, wearing the dress that Faye had bought for her.
The stores are not full of clothes that make little girls look like crows, so Faye had done the best that she could. The child’s sundress was made of cotton fabric that was mostly black, but was printed with tiny white leaves and flowers to acknowledge that Kali was still just a little girl. Black grosgrain straps were tied in bows over her shoulders, and a sparkly belt was tied at her waist. Faye thought that, under other circumstances, those sparkles would have made the little girl smile, which is why she bought it.
Laneer or Sylvia had combed her hair into a high ponytail and tied it in a huge white satin bow. The hank of hair should have bobbed when she moved, but she was moving so slow. Kali’s ponytail drooped with the rest of her.
Most of Faye’s crew had come. Davion had not known Frida, and the expression on his face when he made his excuses had given Faye the impression that he had a morbid fear of funerals. He had stayed at the motel.
Yvonna hadn’t given a reason for not going and Faye didn’t ask. It was fine with Faye if they wanted to stay behind, and it was fine with her that the other three had come. This terrible murder had made impacts on her crew that would continue to ripple. They were having to deal with mortality at a very young age, and now they were faced with losing this job that had promised them short-term paychecks and long-term opportunities. If Davion and Yvonna didn’t want to go to the funeral of someone they didn’t know, Faye completely understood.
Jeremiah and his three employees all looked funeral-appropriate, in both clothing and attitude. Jeremiah was wearing his Sunday best, down to a dove gray bow tie. Richard had managed a suit and tie, probably because he had local family who could lend him dress clothes. Ayesha and Stephanie had been forced to make do with what was in their suitcases, but they were dressed in neat button-down shirts and well-pressed work pants.
Walt Walker, whose charcoal gray suit set off a tie in a soft, muted shade of green, was taking long strides across the room toward Kali. She looked up at the man as he surreptitiously handed her a piece of peppermint candy, its nickel-sized disk twisted in cellophane. Faye could tell that he was hoping that she would smile, but he had no luck that she could see.
Reverend Atkinson stood next to the open casket. After people paid their respects to Laneer and Kali, they filed past the casket and paid their respects to Frida. Some people wept loudly and openly. Some reached out to touch the dead woman one last time. Others passed her in tears and silence.
Faye didn’t enjoy this part of a funeral, but she knew that people grieved differently, so she joined in the communal act of saying good-bye. The most spiritual moment for her would come during the service, when she felt her own frail voice blend into the congregation’s full-throated rendition of old and well-loved hymns. Those were the moments when she felt closest to the loved ones who had gone on before her.
Laneer was nearby, still holding Kali’s hand and still resp
onding to the sympathy of others.
“Yes, Kali will live with me. It will be hard to be without Frida, but we love each other very much. We will be okay.”
“No, the police don’t know who did it.”
“Sometimes, I think I still hear her sweet voice.”
Faye’s turn to pass by the casket and pay her respects had come. She’d been dreading this moment, because she remembered how Frida had looked in the last hours of her life.
She was surprised to see that the mortician had wrought a miracle.
This was not to say that Frida looked good. All the mourners who were making the obligatory exclamation of “She looks so natural!” were either lying or fooling themselves.
Frida looked like a model of a woman created by a 3D printer—plastic, stiff, and lifeless, and the soft petals of the flowers surrounding her face only made it worse. But the mortician’s magic, which Faye knew nothing about and hoped she never did, had done what needed doing. Makeup, internal stitches, prosthetics—whatever they’d done to Frida had been a gift to the guests at this funeral, and to Frida’s memory. And it had been a blessing to Kali.
The minister nodded to Laneer as the last few mourners passed the casket, and Laneer took Kali by the hand.
Reverend Atkinson addressed the room, saying, “If Ms. Stone’s friends will all take a seat in the chapel, we will give the family a few last moments with the deceased.”
Faye joined the line of people leaving the room. She noticed that Linton wasn’t leaving. He sat alone in a chair, several steps away from Laneer and Kali. Everyone in a cluster of Frida’s other relatives was pointedly ignoring him. As the minister moved to close the door, a thin woman in her forties hurried over to him. She pointed her finger at Linton and whispered something in the minister’s ear.
Reverend Atkinson walked over to him and said, “This time is for family only, son.”
Linton stayed seated, meaty hands folded on his lap. “Frida was my wife. And Kali is my stepdaughter.”
“Not any more,” the thin woman said.
“You don’t divorce children, and I ain’t divorced anyway.” He looked to the minister for help.
“Madame,” said Reverend Atkinson. “Some charity, perhaps.”
Except for Laneer, the cluster of relatives gave a simultaneous shake of their heads and their spokeswoman put their opinion into a single word. “No.”
Laneer took a step toward them. “Catherine, it’s not for you to say.”
“No” she said again. “Frida didn’t want him in her life and her family don’t want him here.”
Faye could see that Laneer was preparing to speak his piece as the family elder, but Linton didn’t let him. He rose from the chair and said, “I won’t stay where I’m not wanted. But I want you people to know this and to remember it. Frida was my wife. I made a bad mistake and I paid for it. I lost Frida. I want to do right for Kali, now that her mama can’t be here, and I will do right for her. Do you hear me, sweetie? If you ever need somebody, you’ll always have me.”
Without waiting to see whether Kali would answer, Linton followed the non-family members out of the room, and Faye followed him. She knew that Laneer, the obstreperous Catherine, Frida’s other relatives, and Kali were behind her, and something within her couldn’t resist turning for a last look as the door closed. Faye studied the little face for a glimpse of how she felt about Linton, but she saw nothing but damp eyes and pursed lips.
The organist was playing “Rock of Ages” as the crowd sat in the church sanctuary in silence. Faye and her crewmembers who attended—Richard, Ayesha, and Stephanie—sat in the center of the last row, making sure that everyone who had known Frida personally could take a seat in front of them. Linton sat in the second row, directly behind the seats where the family would soon be sitting. Faye could see him clearly in the small church, and it seemed to her that anger radiated off his back. Sylvia also sat on the almost-family row, but she chose a spot several seats away from Linton and she never looked his way.
Mayfield sat a few rows behind Sylvia, and Walt Walker was directly behind Mayfield. Jeremiah and Armand sat together, across the aisle from Linton. As it turned out, Detective McDaniel had felt the same need to hang back as Faye. He dropped into the chair next to her so casually that she was almost convinced that he was glad to see her.
“It’s a good thing you’re here,” she whispered. “I was going to call you. I’ve been talking to Phyllis Windom. Do you know who she is?”
“Bit of a crackpot, isn’t she? Thinks she can use her computer better than we can use ours?”
“Crackpot or not, there are plenty of grateful testimonials on her website from police departments and sheriff’s offices that say she can do the things she claims.” Now Faye was irritated. She had to work to keep her voice at a whisper. Holding out her phone, she said, “She just called me with information on the Arkansas case that ties it to the bones we found this morning.”
“You’re kidding. What’s the link?” He was trying to whisper, but it came out more like a loud hiss. Sylvia turned and gave him a disapproving look.
“Flowers.”
“That’s…indicative.”
She had the sense that he wanted to say, “That’s amazing,” or “That’s exciting,” but that he’d forced himself to find a more noncommittal word.
“You think? And maybe she is better with her computer than y’all are. Or anybody else. Just because she’s a genius doesn’t mean everybody else isn’t smart. Guess what I just found in her databases.”
“I’m afraid to ask out loud. Sylvia might come back here and rap my knuckles.”
“Then whisper. I found three more cases associated with flowers.”
“Here?”
“Knoxville. Birmingham. Bowling Green, Kentucky.”
“Knoxville’s a hike from here. So’s Birmingham. Faye, if you reach far enough, you can find anything.”
Faye gave him a look that probably had a strong resemblance to Sylvia’s please-shut-up glare. “You can drive to any of those places and get back in a day.”
“If you hustle.”
“The people in Birmingham found an actual receipt for the flowers. Look.”
He took a peek at her phone’s screen. “A receipt for flowers? Seriously? You found that in the big data pile that Phyllis Windom calls a database? Maybe you’re the one who’s a genius. You’re going to send me that, right?”
Faye cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t know if I should. I found it in a crackpot’s database.”
“I’m thinking of the words ‘obstruction of justice….’”
“Oh, okay. If you insist. Here’s everything I know.” She forwarded him the email thread that had passed between her and Windom, and she heard his phone vibrate in his pocket when it came through. “Now you’ve got it. Happy?”
“Ecstatic.”
A set of swinging doors opened and Frida’s casket emerged, escorted by six family members serving as pallbearers. After the casket had been positioned at the front of the sanctuary, the rest of the family came in, with Laneer and Kali entering last, hand in hand. Once the swinging door closed behind the family, Reverend Atkinson took his place at the pulpit. A stained-glass window depicting Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane provided a glowing backdrop for the minister and his dark clothing. The window sent scattered shards of colorful light to rest on Frida’s face.
“We gather today, in the presence of God, to bid farewell to Ms. Frida Stone, who was taken from us so suddenly and far too soon.”
A scattering of amens sounded.
“The loss of dear Frida is a reminder to us all that we are made of dust. We must repent daily, because tomorrow is not promised.”
From here, the minister launched into a prefab sermon that had nothing to do with Frida, unless one counted intimations that people who lived impure lives
should repent early and often, since their lifestyles could attract murder.
This was wrong.
Faye firmly believed that a eulogy should eulogize. It should make the person live again, one last time. She wanted Laneer to hear the minister tell stories about Frida as a little girl who loved ice cream. She wanted Kali to hear about how sweet Frida had been as a young mother pushing a stroller. Instead, they were getting the same hellfire-and-brimstone sermon he preached every time he bellied up to a pulpit. She had been able to resist crying since arriving at the funeral, but now the frustrated tears began to roll.
When Reverend Atkinson got to the climax of his sermon, he shouted, “Yes, ladies and gentlemen, God works in mysterious ways! Everything happens for a reason!”
This was the point at which Kali let the crowd know that she had heard enough.
“No, it doesn’t!” she cried, leaping to her feet and into the shadow of Atkinson’s pulpit. “It doesn’t all happen for a reason. There ain’t no reason for my mama to be laying there dead. Is there?” She turned to look at the congregation, evading Laneer’s trembling hand as it reached out to quiet her. “Do any of you people think God did this? ’Cause if you do, I don’t want to know your God and I don’t want to know you.”
She was backing away from them all. Laneer was going after her and everybody else was letting him fill the role of comforting caretaker, but he moved so slow. He was no match for a little girl who wanted to say what she was thinking. She darted around the front of the church, always an inch out of his reaching grasp.
“My mama was so good. She was so, so good. She didn’t even fight him. Just let him knock her down so’s she could get back up, over and over until he heard somebody coming and had to stop. Then he knocked her down into the hole, and she stayed there.”
She broke and ran. Laneer lunged forward and actually touched her as she left, but his frail grip could do nothing to stop her.
Undercurrents Page 22
