at First Sight (2008) (14 page)

Peter Ellis broke down at the end of his remarks. His wife, Sophia, had taken so many sedatives that she seemed disconnected and far away.

Clarence Rutledge spoke last. Paige could have kissed him, because not once did he mention football. Instead, he talked about Chandler's devotion to L
. D
. children--how, at Georgetown, he donated hours, working in a clinic in Washington, D
. C
., after classes.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Dirt was laid on the casket by the minister and it was finally over.

She remembered walking with Chandler's parents to the limo and the ride from the gravesite back to the church where the reception was being held. Even though she was always surrounded by lots of people, she had never felt so alone. Paige's father had been an army colonel, and after he retired, her parents began a life of travel and recreation. But they died in a boating accident in Florida when she was nineteen. She was their only child. Except for an aunt who was now very ill in a convalescent hospital, and one cousin, in the army, she had no family.

As they exited the limo and started inside the rectory for the reception, she felt a hand on her arm.

"Paige?"

She turned around and was surprised to see it was Chick Best.

She reached out to take his hand, but he grabbed her and hugged her instead. He seemed almost desperate. He was holding her tightly, squeezing her until she had to finally struggle to pull away. "You came. You came all the way from California," she said, finally disengaging.

"I told you I'd be here."

She started looking around. "Where's Evie?"

"Couldn't make it. Just me."

"Thank you so much for coming," she murmured.

Then other people were pulling at her, offering condolences. Chick stood there awkwardly, as if he had something more he wanted to say, but then she was swept away by the crowd heading into the reception.

They were served sparkling wine and hors d'oeuvres. People stood in little groups, talking about Chandler and Paige in low voices. She overheard snatches of their conversations: "He was so young . . . They were so right for each other . . . So much in love . . . "

Sometime toward the end, she felt a hand on her arm and turned again, to find Chick Best standing there. He was now holding a glass of wine, looking slightly out of place in a long, three-quarter-length black coat, which she knew was the rage in Europe, but--in her opinion--looked ridiculous on him. He was too short for the style; it made him look like a Quaker.

"I'm . . . Is there anything I can do to help you?" he asked softly.

"No, no . . . I'm fine. Well, not fine, exactly. Pretty shitty, actually. But there's really nothing, Chick. I think this is something I have to get through alone."

"Look, this may not be the best time. I know how stressful everything is, but I assume you're inundated with financial issues right now and I can . . . "

"Paige . . . " a soft male voice said, interrupting Chick in mid-sentence.

When she heard that deep, soft voice, she knew it was Clarence Rutledge. She turned away from Chick and faced him. Clarence had tears in his eyes.

"I loved him so much;" Chandler's old wide receiver said. He was tall and handsome, and had just graduated from Georgetown Law School.

She reached out and hugged him. The two of them stood wrapped in each other's arms for almost a minute. She could feel Clarence sobbing through the embrace. Then he pulled back.

"My parents came:" he said. "Chan used to stay with us in D
. C
. in the summer before football and during our two-a-days in July. My folks were very fond of him. They want to meet you." Then he led her toward an aging African-American couple.

She forgot, until she was being introduced, that she had just walked off and left Chick standing there.

Later, after the reception, Paige was with several of the other teachers from the school walking out to the church parking lot. She just wanted to go home and lie down. The whole thing was too much for her. Just then, she noticed Chick Best again, hovering near her limo in his three-quarter-length coat.

"Uh, Paige . . . If I could have just a moment, there was something I wanted to discuss with you."

"Oh, Chick, can't it wait?" She knew he meant well, but she needed some space.

"Well, I guess it could:' he said, hesitantly. "But I have to leave first thing in the morning. Maybe I could take you out to dinner tonight."

"I'm really bushed, Chick. It's been a frightful day."

"Right:' he said. Her teacher friends, three middle-aged women, were standing there listening to all this.

Paige saw a frustrated look pass across Chick's face. "Would you mind terribly if we had a moment alone?" he said, rather sharply, to them. She thought the remark out of place, but before she could object, her friends turned quickly away, heading toward their cars. Now Paige was forced to stand in the parking lot while Chick tried to tell her what he wanted.

"You know how sorry Evelyn and I are," he began.

"Thank you, Chick."

"And I wanted you to know that nothing, nothing is too much for you to ask."

"That's very sweet of you, but I'm fine, really. I'll get through this." She wished she could get away from him. Since Chandler died, she had invested all her energy in making other people feel better. She was finally out of emotional currency. She needed to go home. She needed to be alone.

"I'm very good with business," he was saying. "Figures, accounts, all that."

"Oh, I know you are, Chick. You're wonderful with that." What on earth was he getting at?

"I just wanted you to know if you need help on the probate for the estate or any financial stuff that you might not understand, I can stay and we can work on it or I could fly back here on a moment's notice, to help you."

And now he grabbed both her hands in his and held them insistently.

"Really. It's what I do. I want you not to worry about any of it. Just turn everything over to me," he said.

"That's so sweet of you, Chick. But . . . ,
,
"No, really. I'm serious."

"Yes, of course . . . "

"Anything at all. I just want to help. It's all I want."

"Of course. If I need anything, I have your number." Now she was getting frustrated with him. He was gripping both her hands tightly. She tried to back away.

"I could stay an extra day, if that would help," he continued.

Why wouldn't he leave her alone? She just wanted to get away from these hovering, clutching people. "I'm fine, Chick," she snapped at him. Didn't he know the probate would be handled by the Chandler and Ellis family estate lawyers? She certainly didn't need any of his help on that. "I think Chandler's father's lawyers are taking care of all that," she said.

"Oh, I . . . It's just . . . "

"Please, I need to go. I need to lie down. It's very nice you came." Then she tried to give him a quick hug, but he grabbed her again, squeezing her to him. She finally had to put her hands on his chest and push him away. "Give my love to Evie," she said.

It seemed an odd encounter, but almost immediately she forgot about it as more friends stepped forward to claim her attention. People embraced her. People asked her if there was anything they could do . . . if they could run her errands or help her with thank-you notes for all the flowers, until she wanted to scream. But she didn't. She smiled politely and plodded on.

"I think I need to get some rest," she repeated over and over, but these friends wouldn't let go of her either. They meant well, but they were smothering her.

"I'm fine," she kept saying. "I'll get through this. I know I will:' But it was pure bullshit. She knew she wouldn't get through it, and she certainly wasn't fine.

She was devastated.

Her life, like Chandler's, was over.

Chapter
16

SO GOING TO THAT DUMB FUNERAL WAS ONE OF MY ALL
-
time biggest boner moves. I admit it. From the very start, I was off balance, off my game. But in her grief, Paige was more beautiful, more endearing to me, than she had ever been, and I remind you that I was already so smitten that I had murdered her husband to make her more available. Now my lust, love, or passion, whatever it was, overwhelmed me.

Going back over it, I got to the funeral with an hour to spare. I ended up standing in back of a crowd of Paige and Chandler's family and friends, surrounded by Chandler's high-school students, listening to one drippy story after another. The hands-down prizewinner was the one his father told about Chandler fixing a bird's wing. As this saccharine tale unfolded, a bunch of tenth-grade dropouts an
d h
igh-school teachers cried. I was going to need an insulin shot whe
n t
his was over.

The memorial program had a verse from Proverbs inscribed on the front. The minister said Paige had picked it because it had been one of Chandler's favorites, something about it being better to be poor than rich. So even in death this guy was pissing me off.

I won't bore you with my feeble attempts at communicating with Paige at the funeral. What the fuck was I thinking? Here I was, standing with a bunch of people I didn't even know, trying to explain to her how I could help her with her financial affairs, when she had the best legal assassins in the world at her disposal. I felt as out of place as a Buddhist monk in a strip club. I was standing there trying to blend in with a bunch of schoolteachers who thought it was appropriate to wear brown tweed to a funeral.

In between bouts of social awkwardness, I stupidly kept hitting on Paige. Eventually, I got pushed into a corner with another man who looked as out of place as I did. But we were hardly a matched set. I was stylin' in my Armani long line; he was dressed like a tractor salesman, in tan pants and a fifty-dollar blazer. He had the worst saltand-pepper, out-of-style flattop I've ever seen. It looked like his barber had used a lawn mower on him.

"Beautiful service," he said, not really looking at me, but keeping his gray eyes on the people milling around in the rectory.

"Yeah, great," I replied.

"What'cher name?" he asked. So I told him.

"Not from around here, are you, Chick?" he asked.

"Flew in for the funeral. Got here like an hour ago."

"L
. A
., right?"

Now I sort of turned to look at him, because how the hell could he have known that? I'd never met this guy.

"It's the accent," he smiled. "Flat vowels--that's always West Coast. I'm guessing L
. A
. 'cause a the tan and the little Valley thing you got going there, putting the word 'like' in a sentence where it don't belong."

"Doesn't belong," I corrected coldly. If he was going to fuck with my grammar, I'd fuck with his.

"But I'm right, no? It's a hobby a mine tryin' to guess where people are from by their accents."

"Yeah, you're right. I'm from L
. A
., the carjack capital of the world."

"Yeah, I read about that. I also read you people kill each other over bad lane changes." He smiled benignly. "What's the deal with all that?"

"Footballus-interruptus," I smiled. "We're all still pissed the Rams moved to St. Louis."

"Right. Good one. That explains it."

He smiled back at me--bad teeth, heavy tobacco stains. A real hode. I was just about to leave when he stopped me with his next question.

"What's your connection to the deceased?"

It seemed to me like a funny way to put it, calling Chandler "the deceased." It was almost as if he hadn't known him at all.

"Friend," I said. "What's yours?"

"I'm protecting his rights. Making sure he gets the best that the city of Charlotte can provide."

"I'm sorry, what? You're with the city?"

"Yes, sir, work for the city." Then he went on. "So you knew Chandler in L
. A
. before he moved here?"

"Hawaii. We met a few months ago, became friends."

"Musta been some quick friendship. Only known him for a few months. Flew all the way in from L
. A
. for his funeral."

"Yeah . . . yeah, we . . . I'm doing some Internet advertising for Paige, so naturally . . . "

I stopped. Something was wrong about this guy. He looked at me as if he could see beneath my skin, his eyes suddenly like lasers, peeling off surface paint.

". . . So, naturally, you came." He finished my sentence for me. "Yeah," I said. "What exactly is it you do for the city?" I asked. "I investigate homicides?'

"Oh . . . " How could I have missed it? The bad haircut, the cheap clothes, the bowling-alley personality. Cop. I was standing here like a moron, shooting the shit with the very guy who was employed to catch me.

I'm not one to spend a lot of time worrying about bad karma, metaphysics, or spiritual payback, but even for me this was a little spooky. For a second, I stood looking away from him, trying to figure out how to take it from here. I'd already sorta stepped in it by telling this guy I'd only known Chandler for a few months--telling him I came all the way from L
. A
. If I'm such a recent acquaintance, wh
y w
ould I be at the funeral? Of course, you can see the problem--there was only one easy answer to that question. The old Mickey Spillane favorite: "The killer always returns to the scene of the crime." Of course, I was just at the funeral, but it's really the same thing, isn't it?