With Malice

by Rachel Lee

  "Did she say so?"

  Alissa shook her head. "I don't think so. But when she referred to him as a client, I assumed it. Because she talks about our customers as students."

  Karen nodded, scrawling a note on her pad, noticing how Alissa referred to her employer in the present tense. The news hadn't yet sunk in. It might not for a while.

  She looked up from her pad. "Were the two of you close?"

  Alissa nodded, rubbing her eyes with her towel. "Yeah," she said, her voice thick. "Yeah. We…did all kinds of things together. Took trips. Went out to plays and concerts."

  "Even when she had a boyfriend?"

  Alissa's wet, dark eyes met hers, and she nodded.

  Curious, Karen thought. Curious indeed. Most women with boyfriends didn't take trips and go to concerts with female friends. At least not to the degree that Alissa was suggesting. "You did things together a lot?"

  "Sure. All the time."

  "What about the boyfriend? Why wasn't she with him?"

  Alissa opened her mouth, then paused. "I got the impression he traveled a lot."

  "Did she say so?"

  "Not in so many words." Alissa leaned against the barre and patted her face again with the towel. She was wet with sweat still, beads of it were running down her forehead. "Detective, she never said much about him. I told you. I just got impressions."

  Karen nodded. "Would you mind sharing those impressions?"

  "I am. I got the feeling he was away a lot. I got the feeling she was lonely when he was."

  "And you didn't mind standing in for him?"

  Alissa smiled sadly. "I'm lesbian. I had a crush on my boss. What can I say?"

  Karen nodded, undisturbed. She'd heard this kind of thing many times. "Was it reciprocated?"

  "Hell no. Stacy's compass pointed straight all the way."

  "Did she know about your feelings?"

  "I hope not. I didn't want to make her uncomfortable."

  Karen made another note, wondering if Alissa might have been more jealous than she was letting on. If she might have been jealous enough to do something. "It must have been hard for you."

  "Being lesbian is hard from the word go, Detective. There's nothing easy about it. Lifestyle choice?" Her voice turned heavily sarcastic. "Yeah, right. I volunteered for this. I couldn't ask for anything better."

  "I'm not criticizing you, Alissa. I'm just trying to understand."

  "Yeah, it was hard. It's been hard before. Our emotions don't yield to reason. Straights fall in love with gays, gays fall in love with straights, and it's hard, but that's the way it is. We live with it when it happens."

  Karen nodded. "So you were there for her a lot?"

  "I was always there for her—when she'd let me be. She said we were like sisters." Alissa shrugged. "That was good enough."

  "But she still didn't share anything about her boyfriend."

  Alissa shook her head. "No. I felt bad about that. Sometimes I wondered if it was because she suspected how I felt about her and she didn't want to hurt me."

  The dancer looked down at the polished wood floor, then raised a haunted face. "She had a heart of gold, Detective. Find the bastard, will you?"

  8

  The day of the funeral, just over a week after Abby's murder, dawned with the grumble of thunder and racing clouds that seemed to touch the treetops. A late cold front had blown in, making spring feel inauspiciously like autumn.

  The little church that Abby had attended most of her life wasn't big enough to hold the number of people who showed for her funeral. There were all of Abby's friends, of course, a lifetime of relationships cultivated at church and home, some young, some elderly, and every age between.

  But Grant's friends came, too, although, seated in the front row with his parents and his daughters, he didn't see them at first. His attention was partially focused on the closed coffin, but mostly it was focused on the girls on either side of him, dressed in their Easter outfits, outfits that Abby had chosen for them only a few weeks before.

  No black. Abby wouldn't have wanted that. So the girls wore lavender and pink, and Grant himself wore a blue pinstriped suit that Abby always said made him look so good it was a downright sin. How many times had she said to him, "You gonna wear that sinful blue suit today?"

  He might never wear it again after this.

  We are…climbing…Jacob's…Ladder….

  It was a hymn of hope. Hope for Abby. Hope for everyone. The choir was robed in royal blue with gold trim, their black sashes the only bow to the sorrow of the moment. As they slowly swayed side to side, their voices seemed to rise up and dance in the thick air.

  We are…climbing…Jacob's…Ladder….

  "Sister Abigail was an orphan," said the preacher, Ralph Anderson. "But we are all orphans here today."

  The choir continued to sing softly as Anderson's rich bass voice rolled forth from a broad, deep chest within his white robe.

  "We are all orphans in this world. We can't see our Father, or our Mother. The light of their radiance would blind us all, down here in our darkness. We are all orphans in this world. And yet we are not alone. Not alone."

  A staggered chorus of "Amen" rippled through the congregation.

  We are…climbing…Jacob's…Ladder….

  "We can't see our Father. We can't see our Mother. But we can see our brothers and sisters." Anderson spread his arms. "And we are all brothers and sisters here today. Amen. Amen."

  Soldiers…of the…cross…

  "Amen," Grant heard himself whisper. The word translated as I believe. And he did believe.

  Belle squirmed beside him, eyes wide, taking it all in as if to store away forever these last moments with Abby. On his other side, Cathy was still, the barest nod of her head indicating that she was hearing Anderson's words.

  Every…rung goes…higher…higher….

  "Sister Abby was orphaned by sin, but she was redeemed in love." His eyes swept over the congregation. "Every face here is a living testimony to that love. Abby loved her flowers. And every tear I see here today waters the flowers of love she's growing in heaven's garden. Amen and amen."

  Belle curled tighter against Grant.

  "We can't have our sister back. And glory be, if we listen to the stillness in our hearts, we don't want our sister back. For who among us would take Sister Abby out of her Father's arms? And yet we hurt. We hurt, not because she's gone. We hurt because it's not yet our time to go with her."

  Every…rung goes…higher…higher….

  "Because every time Sister Abby said 'I love you,' we could see, we could feel, just for a moment, the reflection of our Father's love."

  "Amen," Grant whispered. This time he heard Cathy whisper it, too. I believe.

  "And it's not Sister Abby we miss so much as that reflection we saw in her eyes, that reflection we heard in her voice. The reflection of our Father's love."

  Every…rung goes…higher…higher….

  "Sister Abby brought each and every one of us closer to God by the way she loved us. By the way she drew love from us." Anderson's voice dropped to a whisper, and he dabbed his brow with a white handkerchief. His eyes swept the congregation again. "Sister Abby was an orphan. Orphaned by hate. But I tell you, she was a sister of love. And every one of us will carry her love forever."

  Soldiers…of the…cross…

  "Amen," Grant and Cathy said in unison.

  On either side of him, Grant's daughters stirred uneasily, and a sniffle escaped Cathy Suzanne. Grant reached out with both arms and cuddled the girls close, offering what comfort he could. Small comfort, he thought. Abby had been with them even more than he had, and her passing had left a gaping pit in their hearts and lives.

  We will…see Him…in His…glory….

  "Today, brothers and sisters," the preacher continued, "today we need to keep in our minds that our dear sister Abby is walking with the Lord.

  "He has lifted her up from all the sorrows of this world. He has taken her han
d and called her home to glory. We shall miss our dear sister, but we cannot grieve for her. She has gone to live with the Lord. No, we grieve for ourselves. For our loss."

  We will…see Him…in His…glory….

  "And that," said the preacher, leaning over his pulpit and stabbing his finger at the congregation, "is why we are here today. To share our sorrow with each other. And when it hurts too much, when it makes you want to weep and wail and gnash your teeth, brothers and sisters, remember that Abby weeps no more. We may still walk in this valley of tears, but our sister stands in the presence of the Lord Jesus, wreathed in glory, surrounded by a love greater than we can imagine."

  "Amen."

  We will…see Him…in His…glory….

  "When you think of Abby, brothers and sisters, smile and celebrate her joy!"

  Soldiers…of the…cross.

  A stirring on his left side made Grant look down at Cathy. She was looking up at him, her solemn face wet with tears. "She really is singing with the angels?"

  He tightened his arm around her, wishing he could pull her close enough that all the pain would be squeezed out of her. "Didn't I say so?" he whispered. "Didn't the preacher just say so?"

  She nodded, and the smallest of smiles came to her mouth. "She's happy."

  "She's happy. Very happy."

  Cathy nodded. "But I can still talk to her?"

  "Just close your eyes and tell her whatever's in your heart, Cathy. She'll hear."

  "Okay."

  Cathy's teary eyes closed, and in that instant Grant could have sworn he felt Abby all around him.

  A couple of Abby's friends from the congregation rose to share remembrances of her. Then it was Grant's turn.

  Standing in front of the congregation, he was strangely unable to make out any faces except those of his daughters. For a few moments he couldn't even speak. When he did, his usually clear voice was thickened with grief.

  "For the first time in my life," he said, "I don't have a prepared speech."

  A rustle of kindly laughter passed through the church, and in the sound he could imagine Abby laughing that deep laugh of hers. It strengthened him.

  "I couldn't write a eulogy," he said, "because for the last week I've been hurting too much. Every time I picked up a pen and tried to put down a few words, the pain overwhelmed me. But Brother Anderson is right," he said, with a nod in the preacher's direction. "We need to celebrate Abby's life, and her reward."

  He drew a deep, audible breath. "Words will never be enough to say what Abby meant to me. What she still means to me. What she means to my two daughters. What she meant to my father and mother.

  "You see, Abby was a gift from God to us. She came to us from terrible loss, a loss many of us can't begin to imagine. But coming to us, she took up residence in our hearts, filling a very special place in all our lives. There is not a doubt in my mind that God plucked Abby out of the ashes of her old life and set her in ours to fill a place that could have been filled by no one else."

  "Amen."

  "When I was small and scraped a knee, she was right there to dry my tears, clean my cuts and cheer me up with a cup of hot chocolate or a game. On rainy days she turned my playroom into a fantastical world where anything could happen. When I got older and my problems became more serious, she was always there to listen and guide me. She had a lot of wisdom in her, hard-won wisdom, and even when I sometimes rebelled against it, in my heart I knew she was right."

  He looked at his daughters. "This morning, when I got up, I didn't even want to get dressed. I didn't want to face this day. But then I heard Abby saying, the way she said so many times, 'You're gonna wear that pinstriped blue suit that looks so good it's a sin."'

  A ripple of quiet laughter ran through the room.

  "Abby is part of me now," he said. "It's never been clearer. I'll hear her voice whenever I'm not sure what to do, whenever I need guidance. I may not be able to see her anymore, but she's part of me forever."

  He looked down a moment, then lifted his head and smiled quietly. "She also told me the girls should wear the Easter outfits she picked for them. Because this is Abby's Easter."

  Amens followed him back to his seat. The moment he was in the pew again, his daughters curled close to him. He hugged them and held them close, because that was all he could do.

  * * *

  The cortege was a long one. The Lawrence family's limousine was followed by many others, as well as a huge line of cars belonging to Abby's friends. The quiet street was lined with cars, so many that the police department had evidently decided two motorcycle officers wouldn't be enough. The two that had been there when he arrived had expanded to six, with the addition of two patrol cars.

  Thunder continued to rumble, but rain fell only in brief spatters as they made their way to the cemetery.

  Karen Sweeney was in one of the nondescript cars that followed behind the limousines. She wasn't there to mourn Abby, though she could have. But she was more interested in who had come to this funeral and why. And more interested in watching the reactions at the gravesite.

  Somebody who regretted his actions might show up out of guilt. Or, if the killer was another type, he might show up to gloat. Or to enjoy all the attention the murder was getting. It took all kinds of sickos to make a world.

  So far the main thing she had noticed was that Grant Lawrence had a great many friends, a surprising number of them from both sides of the aisle in Washington. While she didn't recognize every member of the Senate or House, she recognized enough of them to know that a lot of politics had been put aside in sympathy today. Even Randall Youngblood, whom she now knew a great deal about, was there. And Art Wallace, standing near Grant and his daughters, looked about as grief-stricken as the Lawrence family

  That made the senator a pretty special man.

  * * *

  Randall Youngblood hadn't attended the funeral. It would have been inappropriate to deny someone else a seat in the small church. Instead, he'd waited in the cemetery, watching the hearse pull in, followed by the limousines carrying Lawrence and other celebrities. As he saw the senator, ashen-faced, holding his daughters' hands, Randall couldn't help but feel for the man. Whatever their differences politically, Grant Lawrence was a good and decent man.

  "Senator," he said, quietly, extending a hand. "I'm sorry for your loss."

  Lawrence looked at him with eyes that brought back echoes of when Randall's mother had died. "Thank you for coming, Randall."

  The senator moved on to the gravesite, and Randall took a discreet place at the fringes of the congregation. Trees whispered in the chilly breeze. The rainy season would be here soon, but for now the rolling fields of tombstones still stood amidst pale grass browned by the arid Florida winter.

  Randall had lived here his entire life, save for a brief stint in the air force during the sixties. While a war had sputtered and lurched its way to failure in Southeast Asia, he'd been stuck at the Pentagon. At first he'd resented missing out on the combat zone duty time that everyone said was essential for officer promotions. But then he'd grown accustomed to his post in procurements, to working the corridors of power, buttonholing members of Congress to gain support for this new fighter or that new missile system. He'd learned how the game was played, and that education had served him well when he'd returned to his native state and his father's sugar business.

  As Grant Lawrence knelt and prayed at the woman's grave, Randall found himself regretting that their interests were so at odds. Politics was a dirty business, where reputations were made and broken by people who looked not at the man but at the vectors of interest that guided every word, every thought, every breath. It made heroes—and villains—of ordinary men. Men like Grant Lawrence.

  What a shame, Randall thought. But that was how the game was played.

  * * *

  As the coffin was lowered and the crowd filed away, Jerry Connally found himself joined by the junior senator from Delaware. They'd gone to the same college and eve
n dated briefly, kept in touch through the years. Now her firm hand gripped his elbow.

  "We need him back in Washington," she said quietly. "The rumor mill is starting, and it's not pretty. Falden came by my office yesterday. He's wavering. And if we lose him, we lose Mitchum, Rice and Galloway. Grant has to get back to work."

  "What are you hearing?" Jerry asked.

  "Nothing specific," she said. "And that's probably the worst part. People are filling in the details for themselves. But our golden boy is taking some dings."

  Jerry nodded. He knew about the rumors, but he'd wanted to see if she'd heard anything more than he already knew. She hadn't. But that wouldn't last long. As she'd said, people would fill in the details, and those fictions would carry all the weight of fact after a few repetitions.

  "He's flying back tomorrow," Jerry said.

  Her eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment. He knew the look well. The wheels were turning. Finally, she spoke.

  "Mitchum's getting married next week. I'll set up a small party for him tomorrow night. My town house. Eight o'clock. The right people will be there. Will he need directions?"

  "He'll be there," Jerry said. "I'll get a gift."

  "Mitchum's from Louisiana," she said. "His bride-to-be is from Baton Rouge."

  Jerry nodded. "I'll get them season tickets to the LSU home games."

  She smiled. "Go, Tigers."

  "Go, Tigers," he echoed.

  * * *

  Lucy and Jessie Wallace tumbled out of the house like twin whirlwinds, giggling and bubbling as Belle and Cathy ran to hug them. For a fleeting moment, Grant almost forgot all of the mess that had happened, enjoying his daughters' enjoyment. He pulled the larger suitcase from the trunk and rolled it along behind him as he made his way through the gaggle of girls to the door.

  Art Wallace bent down in the doorway to do his patented "Gorilla Art" routine, scratching his sides and making "oooh oooh oooh" sounds, which sent the girls into even more peals of laughter.

  "They're going to wake up the whole neighborhood," Grant said with a chuckle.

  "Tooh Tooh Tooh brad," Art said, still in gorilla mode. "Rooh Rooh Rit's rix-rirty ranyway."