by Susan Rohrer
Adele added a packet of artificial sweetener to her tea. The alfresco cafe across the street from Oliverio’s was just perfect. Far enough away that Clay didn’t worry about passing out flyers, yet close enough to keep the outrage of it all on Clay’s mind.
Clay dipped the froth off his cappuccino. “You know, the whole Tom Zoring debacle, it was much worse than the papers ever made it out to be. Damage control, protect the boys’ privacy, whatever kind of lame-o whitewash they could slap on it.” He slipped the spoon into his mouth.
Adele took out a pad and pen. “Do you mind talking more freely now?”
Clay shrugged it off. “You know that bell tower, front of big old holy Saint So-and-So’s?
“Is that what you call the place?” Adele chuckled as she made a note. “Yeah, I’ve seen it.”
He leaned in confidentially. “The tower, see that was off limits, everybody knew, but... I mean, what kid doesn’t want to climb up into a tower? Father Zoring used to talk to me about it. He said one time he’d been up there and he’d had this, sort of, visitation.”
Adele felt her mouth drop. This was getting better by the minute. “A visitation? You mean, like he’d seen some sort of—”
Clay nodded broadly. “Yeah, right. Like Jesus dropped by there.”
Adele’s eyes widened.
“Yeah. As if. But what did I know? There I was, this freaky little kid, lived totally in this surreal, anything’s possible place. And I used to sneak up there alone, sit for hours, you can imagine... I was thinking that maybe I would, I don’t know, see something and...one day Zoring caught me.”
“So, was that the day when it happened?” Adele’s mind raced ahead. What a nightmare that must have been for a child.
“No.” Clay’s eyes drifted, like the memory was eating at him, all over again. “But from then on he said he’d have to go up there with me. He’d climb up the ladder behind me, real close. Said he didn’t want me to fall.”
Adele set her pen down. “Ironic.”
Clay ran his finger along the brim of his cup. “He reeled me in slow. Played with my mind till I gave him the rest.”
Adele took it in thoughtfully. This was some story. “Did you finally tell someone?”
Clay smirked. “Didn’t have to. My brother, Joe, he got suspicious, followed us, blew the whistle, blah-bah-di, blah, blah...and that was that.”
Laurel scanned the sanctuary. She’d been in many churches outside the small community chapel she attended, but this one was different. The vaulted ceilings alone were breathtaking. Stained glass and statuary surrounded the many hundreds who had come to commemorate Frank’s passing.
A lump lodged in her throat. Never had she felt so desperately alone while in a house of God.
It was all so very surreal. The Requiem was mystically beautiful. The Cardinal had officiated alongside the parish’s bishop with such reverence. But even with Frank’s bier before her—white roses cascading off the top, encircled by shimmering candles—all Laurel could see was her little Grace. Grace was there, sitting by Shana, so many pews away on the other side, far in front of her.
Laurel reminded herself. There was little chance that she would be able to talk to Grace after Frank’s Mass ended. Shana had already made her intent more than clear in a pointed email. Though Shana wouldn’t deny Laurel entry to the funeral itself, attendance at Frank’s burial was strictly limited, by invitation only. It hadn’t seemed appropriate to Shana to add Laurel’s name to the guest list, either at graveside or following that, at the private reception to be held at her estate.
This would be it.
The chapter of her life that Frank had occupied had come to a close. This was goodbye. No attention had been called to Laurel’s presence. There had been no preferential seating. No one would acknowledge her as part of Frank’s family, certainly not as one of his widows. At most, it seemed she was an embarrassment to the recovering family name. Many sideward stares and whispers confirmed it. She was not wanted here, not by anyone, save her daughter.
Lord, help me. The weight was so heavy, too burdensome to carry alone.
Just after the Mass concluded, Shana and Grace rose. As they headed down the center aisle, Grace scanned the crowd. Buried in a sea of faces, Laurel’s hopes leapt. Everything in her longed to cry out: I’m here, Baby. I’m here.
Finally, Grace’s mournful eyes rested upon hers. Laurel pressed her hand to her overflowing heart. Yes, Sweetheart. I’m thinking of you. Whenever it beats, and even when it skips one.
Ever so softly, Grace smiled through her tears. She put her hand to her heart, too, mirroring the gesture.
It wasn’t a moment before Shana took Grace’s hand and ushered her onward, down the aisle and out the cathedral’s majestic front doors. It hadn’t been long, just an instant really. But still, Laurel brimmed with gratitude. They’d had that instant, that one exquisite connection, that moment straight out of heaven.
Soon, a long procession of cars crept out of the parking lot, behind Frank’s departing hearse. The windows to the limousines were all tinted black, lest cameras intrude upon the grieving passengers. It had been Shana’s choice, no doubt, and a good one in Laurel’s estimation.
Briskly, Laurel made her way to her car. Joe had been right to suggest that she should wait inside until most of the other parishioners had already left the cathedral. The waiting press would mob those who left first, deeming them of greatest import, leaving her free to exit down the back stairs.
What she hadn’t counted on, though, was that Detective McTier would be out there in the lot, right beside her car.
“Hey, Laurel...” Joe leaned around a pillar. “Looks like you’ve got company over there.”
Laurel reached into her handbag. “Yeah, I saw.”
“Just go straight home when you’re done with him. I’ll come to you.” Joe ambled away.
Laurel got her keys out and squared her shoulders.
McTier stepped aside as she neared. “I have a theory,” he said.
Laurel composed herself. “I think it’s fair to say that this is not the time.”
McTier scrunched his lips, seeming to concede the point. “You’d do just about anything for that little girl, wouldn’t you?”
Laurel didn’t have to wonder what he meant by that. The man’s tone was exceedingly clear. “As I told you before, Detective, I had nothing to do with this. With all respect, you’re wasting your time.”
“You know what, Ms. Fischer? When it comes to you, I’ve got all the time in the world.”
By the time Laurel got back to her apartment, Joe was waiting at the door. At least he had been willing to interview her privately, apart from the crush of reporters she’d seen outside the cathedral.
Laurel opened the door. A strange thought struck. Other than her super, Joe was the first man to visit her apartment.
Joe wandered inside. He gazed around the space. “So, home sweet home.”
Laurel followed him in and shut the door. “It’s not much, but it’s really close to the Grille, so no complaints. Feel free to have a seat.”
Joe perched on the edge of the sofa. He pulled a small recording device out of his pocket and set it upright on the coffee table. “You don’t mind if I use this, do you?”
Laurel wrung her hands. “Actually, I do. I said I’d talk to you, but I don’t really want you recording me.” Oddly, a name flashed across her mind.
He looked a bit peeved, but he put the recorder away. Instead he pulled out a steno pad. “I guess we can do this the old fashioned way.”
At least he was trying to be nice. She gestured toward the kitchenette. “Do you want anything to drink or...”
“You got a beer?”
Laurel shifted her weight. There was that name again, echoing in her mind. She fought to refocus on his question. “All I have is tea, water, or juice. I’m diabetic, so I don’t really keep any kind of alcohol.”
He put his hands up. “No worries. I’ll pass.” At leas
t there was an agreeable look on his face.
Laurel eased into a chair across from Joe. She could not deny what she kept hearing any longer. “I know you’re here to interview me, but... Could I ask you something?”
His facial response looked so tentative. “You can ask.”
There was no easy way to broach this. It would sound so bizarre to him, so random. But there was also no way to ignore the name she kept hearing. She’d just have to ask. “I don’t really know anyone by this name, but... Who is Clay?”
All that had been pleasant on Joe’s face drained into weariness. He crossed his arms. “My brother. Why?”
“I don’t know exactly. And I’m not trying to freak you out or anything. I just keep hearing his name.”
He circled a finger to one side of his head. “Hearing as in...that...”
Laurel set her hands in her lap. “That voice, yeah.” It was so hard to go out on these limbs—especially with a stranger—but suddenly, there was more. “Like maybe there’s a problem between you.”
She didn’t have to ask if she were right. Confirmation was written all over his face.
Joe tapped his pen. He was withdrawing from her. “You know, as you said, I’m interviewing you here and, maybe we should stick to that.”
It was a polite enough rejection, but it still stung. Regardless, Laurel pressed. Something was there, something that needed to come out, for his sake. “Maybe it would be easier for me to tell you about my life if you told me a little about yours first.”
Joe sighed. A faraway haze crossed his face. “It’s complicated. The thing with Clay.”
An ironic smile flickered. “And my life isn’t?”
“Fair enough,” he said. “Clay was...” He paused for the longest time. “Our mother died when Clay was born. Our dad took off...so my brother and I, we ended up at a parochial boarding school, same parish where we were for Frank’s Mass today. Let’s just say it didn’t work out so well between us. Clay, he and I—we’re kind of like oil and water, you know?”
Laurel nodded. Something about this reporter fascinated her. There was a certain sadness in his eyes, a wound that ran much deeper than he seemed willing to admit.
“You got any family?” Clearly, he was ready to get back to business.
“My parents. They’ve got a Bed & Breakfast out on the Oregon coast. When Frank divorced me, they were all over me to come home. Help them out with the place. And believe me. I’d love to, but... I can’t. Not without Grace.” Laurel ran her hands along the arms of her chair. “Any way you could leave them out of the story? It’s all so awful. I hate to risk their business’s reputation over this mess.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem.” Joe clicked his pen open. “So, fast forward. You called Frank, early the morning that he died.”
“Who told you that?”
“Mrs. Fischer, at her press conference,” he said. “She was going over the events leading up to the discovery of the body. It was in today’s paper.”
Word was getting around, much faster than Laurel had thought. Now the whole world would be jumping to conclusions. There was no point in withholding the information any longer. Maybe, if she told him the truth, even as strange as it was, he’d print it. Maybe it would help defang the rumor mill against her.
Laurel sat forward. “I’d had a dream about Frank. Night visions—they’re a facet of this gift I’ve been given. They can be wonderful, but they can also be very disturbing at times.”
Almost imperceptibly, Joe shook his head.
As simply as she was trying to explain it, apparently, he was having trouble believing her. She could hardly blame him. If it hadn’t happened to sane people all over the Scriptures, she probably wouldn’t have believed it herself. “You want me to go on?”
“Yes, yes. I just—” He jotted something down.
She waited for him to look up from his notebook. It was all so hard to describe. “There’s a different feeling I get when it’s an important dream. I have ordinary dreams, too, just like anybody does, but this one—I woke up and I had this really dire sense about him, like something was about to go horribly wrong.”
Joe continued to take it all down. “Walk me through this from your call in the morning. Was it the administrative assistant who told you what had happened?”
“No, Rene had given the phone to Shana by then. So, I was on the line with Shana when Grace discovered her father’s body.” Her daughter’s cries reverberated in her ears. Again, Laurel’s heart broke. “When I called, I had no idea he was dead. I keep beating myself up about it. I keep thinking, maybe I could have stopped it.”
Joe looked up. “The murder?”
Laurel splayed her fingers. “Possibly.” What could she say when she understood so little about it herself? “It’s so hard to know. I just get pieces sometimes and I wrestle with... I mean, I’m still just a human being and I’m not always sure what to do with what I’m given.”
Laurel leaned forward. “I didn’t ask for this gift. It just started happening. I guess I can understand why it intrigues people. They think, wow, isn’t it amazing to see these things. To know. And it is, but...”
Laurel felt her eyes begin to fill. She tried with everything in her to stem the tide, but it was no use.
Joe just looked at her. “Do you need to stop?”
Laurel brushed away a tear. “No, it’s... It can just be really painful. What I see...it’s not always easy to see. This gift, it can be very isolating. I lost my child over it...and just about every friend I thought I had.”
Her voice choked in her throat. “I’m no Jeremiah, that’s for sure. But there’s this place where he talked about it being so hard to have this gift that even he tried to shut it off. I know that feeling. And it’s just like he said. If I bottle up what God gives me, it’s like there’s this fire, raging inside me. I have to let it out. And let people think what they think.”
Salty tears were rolling. She was falling apart in front of this man she hardly knew, yet somehow she felt safe with him, safer than she’d felt in a very long time.
He watched her, silently taking in her words.
“It gets incredibly lonely,” she said. “I mean, maybe it’s pathetic, but I actually caught myself looking forward to you coming over today. ”
Joe’s eyes widened.
She had to laugh at herself. “Like, wow. Bona fide human contact. I know it’s just for your paper, and you’re being paid to talk to me. But, hey. Whatever.”
That’s when it happened.
The oddest little smile skittered across Joe’s face. He was definitely still studying her, but on some level she couldn’t begin to comprehend, he seemed to understand just a bit of the alienation she was feeling. What’s more, if she were reading him right, he was beginning to care.
Joe put his pad back into his pocket. “You want to maybe go out someplace to do the rest of this? Get some air?”
eight
Shana excused herself from the receiving line. Even though the guest list to the reception in her estate had been purposefully limited, there were still so many people there. It was the burden of notoriety.
Already the vultures were circulating. They were feigning condolences, but under the hush of it all, she could tell they were jockeying for position. Even Rene. Frank would have to be replaced soon. Of course, no one said so. They were all far too savvy for that. Behind the air of sympathy, underneath Rene’s dewy-eyed promise to be there for her, the stale scent of a political agenda wafted around the room. As always, it was about the money. After all, she was still sitting on a considerable fortune. They were competing for her future support.
She’d managed to hold it together throughout the service. She’d steeled herself at Frank’s graveside. But now, more than anything, she just wished all these people would go home. She caught Howard’s arm. “Could you handle this for a moment?”
Howard put a comforting hand to her back. “Go. Take as long as you need.”
&nbs
p; Shana strode away. She needed a chance to sort this all out in her mind, time alone to deal with her emotions. If she shook one more hand, if one more associate of Frank’s told her how sorry they were or how much the Party would miss him, she might completely lose it.
Shana pushed through, into the kitchen.
Helen looked up from her labors. “Can I get you something, Mrs. Fischer? A cup of tea?”
Shana leaned against the counter. “No, Helen. Thank you. I’ll be fine.” It was a lie. At least in the short term.
Helen transferred a batch of her fresh baked hors d’oeuvres onto a silver tray. “You don’t have to pretend you’re fine, that’s now or anytime soon. You just lost your husband. People will understand if you need to let down a little.”
If only Helen knew. Shana looked toward the kitchen steps. “How is Grace doing?”
“Never you mind about Grace. She’s sleeping upstairs, like a tired little lamb. The way you should be. A short nap in the middle of an afternoon like this might do you a world of good. I’d be happy to keep things running for you down here.”
The idea was so tempting.
How Shana would love to curl up in her bed, drift off to sleep, and—for a blessed twenty minutes or so—forget that this horror had ever even happened.
But how could she sleep, knowing that everybody was downstairs, their tongues waggling that she’d been too weak to face them? There’d been no rest for her mind, what with all the questions that refused to give her solace. What had really happened to Frank? Should she even be grieving him at all?
Detective McTier sauntered into the kitchen. He helped himself to a stuffed mushroom from Helen’s tray. “These are very good, Ma’am. I’ll have to get my wife to ring you for the recipe.” He popped the morsel into his mouth and turned to Shana. “My condolences and whatnot, but do you think I could have a moment?”
This man was unbelievable. Shana straightened. “I’ll remind you I just buried my husband.”
McTier extended a short stack of papers. “But with all due respect...”
