by Sue Henry
He took a quick look at the bedroom and the cab, nodding approval. “Pretty slick. They seem to have thought of just about everything. I can see how you could get addicted to going places in one of these. And you travel all by yourself?”
How many times have I been confronted with that question? Somehow people, even some RVers, seem to think that a woman—especially a woman my age—can’t possibly be capable of motor homing alone. Any woman who has hauled a vacuum cleaner up and down stairs, sorted supplies into a small kitchen, or dragged hoses around a garden can easily understand that there isn’t much about the everyday care of a motor home that is more difficult. Like many Alaskans, I’ve chopped my own wood for winter fires all my life. My father wouldn’t let me learn to drive until I knew how to change a tire and prime a carburetor if necessary. I know how to adjust the setting on a generator for different elevations. Several feet of snow seldom impedes my driving ability, but if it does I’m smart enough to wait for the plow. I’d much rather drive the wide, well-paved stretches of the Alaska Highway than the congestion of most American cities, but I’m capable of either.
I told him so.
“What if you have mechanical problems?” Soames asked.
“That,” I told him, “is what other people are for—and tow trucks and repair shops. Though I could gap spark plugs, or change my own oil and filters, I don’t. I have the rig serviced regularly, including all the systems, but I understand how they work and carry extra fuses, fluids, and belts.”
“It’s kind of like a boat,” he observed.
“Did I mention that my first husband was a commercial fisherman and that I helped run his boat?”
“I give up.” He grinned, sliding back onto the dinette bench as I refilled his coffee.
“So what can I do for you, besides be a saleswoman for motor homes?” I asked as I sat down again.
I watched him mentally shift gears and the law enforcement officer reappear.
“Thought I should have some idea just what this—ah—gathering . . . Gathering! What is that? Why can’t you just call it a funeral?”
My accommodating mood dissolved in a hot spark of irritation. I liked his alter ego better.
“Because it’s not a funeral,” I told him a little sharply. “Gathering is what Sarah wanted it called. She didn’t like the baggage the word funeral suggests to most people.”
Chastised, he accepted responsibility for my annoyance. “Okay—okay. I apologize. Makes sense the way you put it, I guess.”
“It will be more of a recognition of Sarah’s life—a sort of celebration in a way.”
“And I understand there’ll be wine.”
“Yes—another thing she wanted. She always said she didn’t want spooky music or preaching and wanted the family wine instead of flowers—though she’s going to have to put up with both.”
He gave my use of the present tense a half-dubious glance.
“Okay, here’s the thing. The lab did find fingerprints on those threats with the faces—three sets that belonged to you, Mrs. Nunamaker, and Don Westover. But there was one partial they couldn’t identify. There’s about half a thumbprint on one edge of one of them that doesn’t match up. I’m thinking that we might be able to get some prints for comparison off the wineglasses at this gathering this afternoon. Glass takes good prints and the other people I have on my list as possible suspects will be there, won’t they?”
“I’d guess that would depend on who you have on your list,” I said, wondering about the word other, in terms of possible suspects. Was I still on his list—was Don?
He nodded and took out his seemingly ever-present notebook. Flipping pages, he found the one he wanted.
“Mrs. Nunamaker’s son, Alan, the woman that claims to be her daughter, Jamie Stover, and this old friend, Ed Norris. Those three, but I’ll be on the lookout for anyone questionable. Any other you can think of?”
There was not, but I couldn’t know who would be coming, could I?
What he wanted was to have two of his people assist at Callahan-Edfast as waitstaff. They would circulate through the assembly, offering wine in glasses and collecting empties, carefully segregating for testing those from the people Soames had designated as suspect.
“As long as they aren’t obvious, I have no problem with it. But you’ll have to clear it with the director.”
After Soames agreed and left with the intention of doing so, I sat thinking how sad it was that the police found it necessary to use Sarah’s gathering as an opportunity to collect clues to the identity of her murderer. On the other hand, had it been my death, I knew she would have been relentless in helping to track down the person responsible for such an offense and would expect no less of me.
I hoped that Soames would keep his people strictly in the background. So far there had been no mention by the local press that her death had been anything but natural and I wanted it kept that way. The disclosure of law enforcement in attendance with such a purpose could inspire all kinds of unpleasant rumors. It could also interfere with Soames’s hope to find an identity to go with that single partial print.
His plans, however, were not my first priority. I wanted Sarah to have the kind of gathering she had planned, without speculation from the people who had cared about her and would be present to give her a good send-off.
The event as I—and Sarah—had imagined it, however, would not take place precisely as planned.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE CALLAHAN-EDFAST MORTUARY WAS AN ATTRACTIVE building on Patterson Road with a sweeping drive and a waterfall in the entryway.
Mr. Blackburn met me near the front door shortly before three and called an aide to take and arrange the armful of colorful flowers I had brought from Sarah’s yard.
We had walked through the facility on my initial visit and agreed that rather than set up a table in the central area, waitstaff would bring wine on trays from the kitchen to serve to those attending, leaving more space for people to mingle casually as Sarah had wanted. There was a chapel that could seat close to two hundred, but with no formal service planned it would be used only for those who would like a place to sit, or to add the flowers some were sure to bring to those already around her closed coffin at the front of the large room.
“You know,” Mr. Blackburn asked hesitantly, “she didn’t want a service, but someone should say something, don’t you think? People will expect it. Would a toast be in order—because of the wine, you know—perhaps by her son? That would provide an informal kind of recognition without the speechmaking she didn’t want.”
I thought about it for a minute and agreed.
“I’ll ask Alan when he gets here.”
It wasn’t long until people began to arrive and Mr. Blackburn went off to the kitchen to send out the waitstaff with wine in glasses while I greeted the early birds, offering them each one of the cards Sarah had prepared, had printed, and sent to Mr. Blackburn before she died.
Under her smiling picture were a few of her own words of explanation and expectation for the rather unusual gathering she had planned.
Because I don’t believe that
goodbyes are forever, or that
they should be sad affairs, I
invite you to raise a glass
with me and remember only
happy things today.
No speeches, no tears, no
solemn farewells.
Please know that I’ve had a
fine life, filled with more
than my share of warm memories
of the things and people that
count the most—friends and
family.
It’s been a great adventure.
Sarah
It was so like her that I had to smile, but somewhere inside still lay that hot coal of anger that someone had deprived me of the last pleasure and comfort of her company and sent her off ahead of schedule, against her plans and wishes.
Alan came then, striding across the room
to where I stood and smiled down at me a little cautiously. I had not remembered that he was so tall until we stood next to each other.
“Will you give a toast for your mother?” I asked him. “Mr. Blackburn thinks something should be said and it would be appropriate for you to do it, wouldn’t it?”
He nodded. “Yes, I can do that, I guess. Do you think . . . ?”
He stopped, his focus shifted, eyes narrowing in dislike as he looked past me toward the door. I swung around to see what had caused such an intense reaction and saw Ed Norris on his way in with what looked like a dozen pink roses.
“Damn,” Alan muttered, scowling. “Does he have to . . . ?”
“Stop it!” I interrupted him, turning my back on Ed and laying a hand on Alan’s arm. “This is your mother’s day. Whatever you may think of him, she and Ed were friends. Leave it alone, Alan.”
Glancing back I saw that Ed had obviously seen Alan’s furious expression, for he was veering away from a confrontation and heading in the direction of the chapel with his flowers.
A little of the tension seemed to leave Alan as Ed disappeared. He was still not happy, but at least he was paying some attention.
“All right,” he snapped, “but keep him away. He has nothing to do with me.”
“I know.”
“You know what?” he demanded, giving me his full and sudden attention.
“I know that he’s not your father, however much he may think he is. Will that do for now?”
“How could you—?”
“Never mind how. We’ll discuss it later, if you want. For now, behave yourself as your mother would expect.”
“You sound just like her.” Though it was reluctant, he managed a crooked grin. “I’ll thank these people for coming and give her a toast, okay?”
I smiled back.
“Good boy.”
Though he was far from a boy.
It took a while for me to work my way around the room and warn Ed to stay away from Alan, for many people began to arrive and the flood continued until the central area was congested and at least a third had spilled out into the sheltered reception area in front of the building.
“Where did they all come from?” Ed asked, looking around the crowded space. “Who are they?”
“They’re people who knew and loved Sarah,” I told him, amazed he seemed to have no concept of how much a part of the community she and her family had been. “Her father was once mayor of Grand Junction. You can’t have imagined people didn’t know and respect her.”
He shook his head, bewildered. “I guess I knew, but I had no idea . . . I put her roses in the chapel and thought they’d stand out, but there’re dozens of others.”
Men simply focus on one thing at a time. He had imagined what he wanted and nothing more. It was his way, but good for him to have a fresh and more realistic perspective. I left him to new discoveries and went to meet and thank a few more people for their presence as a tribute to my friend.
Mr. Blackburn had provided a string quartet that included a harp and, in a small room off to one side, was playing classical background music—but none of the spooky stuff Sarah had refused to consider. There was no formal reception line, which, along with the wine, encouraged people to form small social groups and talk to each other. They all appeared to at least know who Alan was and sought him out to express their condolences. At one point he brought the current mayor over to meet—and, perhaps impress—me. Several others stopped to introduce themselves, including an attractive blond woman with a pleasant smile.
“I’m Cathy White,” she told me and leaned closer to avoid being overheard. “I’m the pathologist who helped do Sarah’s post, but I knew her before from a reading group we both belonged to. She was a fine person with a great sense of humor and life. I liked her a lot and was sorry to find that her death wasn’t natural, as we had expected it would be. I hope you don’t mind that I’m here.”
How thoughtful of her to ask.
“Of course not,” I told her. “You’ve done her a great service and I’m very glad you came. I don’t need to know the details, but you were completely sure about what you found?”
She nodded. “Yes, and I’m sorry that we were. Of course the first opinion was from the coroner—I assisted. I hope they find out who was responsible soon.”
So did I.
Seeing a woman go into the chapel with a bouquet of blue delphinium, I followed her to the door and found, as Ed had indicated, that Sarah’s closed coffin was rapidly being covered with an almost dizzying assortment of bright flowers of all kinds and more stood on the floor around it in the vases I had requested. Most had not come from florists, but from people who had brought the best of their gardens, as I had Sarah’s. It was lovely and bright and I knew that, no matter what she had said she wanted or didn’t want, she would have been pleased. In the center of it all, someone had lit a tall candle that glowed softly in the restrained lighting Mr. Blackburn had wisely chosen.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a voice spoke beside me and I turned to a heavyset woman I didn’t recognize.
She held out a hand. “Beth Gleason—her nurse. I went by twice a day to make sure she was comfortable. You must be Maxine. She talked about you often and was looking forward to your visit.”
“If only I had arrived sooner,” I said, and thanked her for taking care of Sarah. She moved away to speak to Doris Chapman, who smiled and nodded to me.
There were so many people it was almost impossible to see across the room, but in a momentary space between the mayor and Don Westover, who I hadn’t seen until that moment, I glimpsed Tomas hesitating at the door, a slender woman beside him.
Threading my way slowly through the crowd, I finally reached and greeted him. “Buenas tardes, Tomas. Thank you for coming.”
“My wife, Jovana,” he said, proudly presenting her.
With a warm smile, she extended a hand and spoke with only the hint of the accent that gave his words so much character. “Hello, Mrs. McNabb. I’m pleased to meet you. Tomas says you were a good friend to Mrs. Nunamaker.”
This was no shy or retiring, stereotypical wife, but a self-assured and lovely woman, who I soon learned was a teacher of Spanish at a local high school. What a handsome older couple they made—he in a dress shirt so white it almost glowed against his dark skin, so different from the casual clothes of the man I knew from Sarah’s garden—she in soft, flowing, butter yellow, her dark hair a heavy curve that fell to just above her shoulders without a hint of gray. She was as erect in stature as a Flamenco dancer, and as graceful.
As we spoke, just beyond Jovana’s shoulder, I saw one of the waitstaff go up to Ed and offer him a fresh glass of wine, which he accepted, draining the last of the one he held and handing the glass over in exchange. Rather than take it, the waiter indicated that Ed should set it on the tray he held in one hand and gave him the full one with the other. As he turned away, Ed gave him a quick questioning glance and frowned slightly before turning back to the conversation in which he was involved. I wondered if he had recognized the man as part of the local police department.
The waiter walked straight across the room and into the kitchen, where I could see Soames waiting among the crew. With fingers spread to apply pressure inside of the mouth of the glass, the detective deftly lifted and slipped it into an evidence bag, which disappeared into his jacket pocket, all out of Ed’s line of sight. Successful, he glanced up to find me watching and—to my utter astonishment and amusement—winked.
“What was that about?” asked a quiet voice in my ear and I whirled to find that Alan, standing beside me, had followed my close attention to the sleight-of-hand going on in the kitchen. “The waiters stealing the glassware now?”
“I’ve no idea,” I lied.
He shrugged and seemed to forget it in favor of what he had come to ask.
“Whatever. Shall I do the toast now?”
“Oh yes, I think so.”
As he walked away to do
his duty, Soames appeared at my elbow.
“That son of hers keeps refilling his glass,” he said with a frown. “So far my man hasn’t been able to get it away from him. Any ideas?”
I looked over to see that Alan was carrying a glass half full of wine.
“Maybe,” I told Soames. “Let me give it a try.”
From the tray of a passing waiter, I took a fresh glass of wine, followed Alan across the room and stopped next to him while he waited for someone to bring him a chair to stand on.
“Here,” I told him, holding out the fresh glass. “You can’t raise a toast with a half-empty glass.” As he took it, I reached out and lifted his old glass out of his other hand by its stem, turned and walked away toward the kitchen, where Soames emptied it and repeated his sleight-of-hand.
“Well done,” he grinned. “You ever need a job, come see me.”
I left him to his evidence collecting and went back to hear what Alan would have to say.
High enough to be seen by everyone but a few who had stepped outside, he smiled and nodded to the crowd now quiet and listening.
“I’d like to thank you all for coming today to honor with your presence a grand lady who will be greatly missed,” he said. “As you know, she didn’t want a fuss or a funeral, so she planned this friendly gathering herself, as she wanted it—with no speeches. So instead of a eulogy I offer a toast that was Sarah’s favorite.” He raised his glass and said simply, “Love and friendship, life and laughter,” then, as I remembered Sarah adding whenever she used it, “lots of laughter.”
Everyone ceremonially sipped the wine amid a mild ripple of appreciative and understanding amusement.
Nicely done, Alan, I thought.
But once again he had avoided saying mother.
It was then, as the laughter died away and he had stepped down from the chair he had used as a platform, that I turned and caught my breath at the sight of Jamie Stover coming through the door. In her hands were several slender stems of yellow freesia and fern caught together with a white ribbon.
Moving beside her was the tall, dark man I had seen in the Family History Library in Salt Lake.
