Come Unto These Yellow Sands (20 page)

“That’s convenient.”

Max didn’t bother to reply.

Swift said, “Denny’s a little more mature than, say, Hodge or even Tad. I’m not saying he’s sophisticated, but he’s a personable, attractive young man. I don’t know if you noticed he’s the same physical type as Mario Corelli.”

“Give or take twenty years.”

“He seemed genuinely shocked at the idea Nerine Corelli might be having an affair with Bill McNeill.”

“A lot of kids are shocked at the idea of people over thirty having sex.”

“I think it was more than that.”

“I see. Denny takes out Corelli because he and Nerine are having a torrid affair. Do you have some evidence of this affair?”

“No.”

“I’m not surprised. We can’t find any evidence that Nerine Corelli is having an affair with
anyone
, and believe me, we looked. As far as our investigation indicates, the focus of her life for the past year has been winning this election—which her husband did everything in his power to arrange for her.”

“Okay. I give up. Maybe it was the mob.”

Max smiled faintly.

“You could still check Denny’s alibi. Just for laughs.”

“I’m
so
glad I have you to tell me how to do my job.”

“Asshole.”

Max laughed. He glanced at the clock. “I’m checking everyone’s alibi, including Tad’s. If you’re right and he was busy getting the shit knocked out of him while his father was being murdered, then you’ve achieved what you hoped to do.”

Swift looked up in surprise. “I did, didn’t I?”

Max made a sound of amusement. “Yes, Teach. You did. Are you going to Corelli’s funeral this afternoon?”

Swift nodded. “I told Tad I would.”

The phone on Max’s desk rang. From the other room, Hannah shouted, “Max, line three.”

As he picked up the phone, Max said to Swift, “Then I’ll see you there.”

Swift hadn’t worn a tie since he’d interviewed for his position at Casco Bay College. He regarded the knot in his navy Hugo Boss tie appraisingly. Serviceable. His father had listed being able to tie a tie as one of those life skills no man should be without. Norris Swift had come from good, solid Yankee stock. New England intellectualism and Old Money.

Swift’s memories of his own father’s funeral were not clear. This is to say they were dazzlingly, pulsatingly clear—and largely inaccurate, thanks to the fact that he had been stoned throughout. In his mind it had been the most beautiful of spring afternoons. Trembling pink cherry blossoms against a blue butterfly day. The sun chimed gold life. God himself had seemed to read the service in a majestic, booming voice. And what an amazing service it had been, containing as it did all the mysteries of the universe. The many eulogies that followed were equally brilliant and equally moving. It had seemed wonderful to Swift that all his father’s friends, both living and dead, had showed up for the occasion.

And so he had told those people, both living and dead—and everyone else who would listen.

At the end of the service he had walked, still babbling, beside his mother to the limo. He had tried to hug her and she had slapped him, once, very hard. It was the only time in his life she ever struck him. Or probably anyone. He didn’t begrudge her the slap. Rather the words that had followed.

One thing Marion Gilbert Swift had always possessed was a laser-precise facility with words. Not even his drug-addled wits could protect him from her blame for his father’s death, her disbelief and then dismissal of the two years he had managed to stay drug free, her absinthal regret for the accident of his birth, and finally the refusal to let him come to the reception at the house, the refusal to ever have him in her house again.

Swift had long since worked out that she was nearly mad with grief. That half her heart was gone and the other half torn and bleeding.

Old pepper tongue.

Pickles his heart in brine.

The vinegar man is a long time dead.

He died when he tore his valentine.

She had taught him that poem. There was a bit of film somewhere in a long-forgotten documentary of them kneeling together in a patch of sunlight in Norris Swift’s study. He was about six, and she was coaxing him into reciting that crazy poem by Ruth Comfort Mitchell. He still remembered her face, young and laughing.

He knew it had not been her intent to destroy him any more than a tsunami targeted an individual victim. He was simply…in her path.

And, let’s be honest, he had been a great disappointment for many years.

The next—and last—time he’d seen her had been some months later in court after he had recovered from the overdose that nearly killed him. She’d done her very best to get him institutionalized, but it wasn’t an easy thing to do even if you were wealthy, well-known, well-respected, and frighteningly articulate—and even if the “patient” demonstrated what you considered to be self-destructive tendencies.

Drug addiction was not technically insanity, even if it felt like it to everyone concerned.

Swift had not been invited to the wedding when, to the amazement of the literary world, she remarried a couple of years later. He hadn’t even known about it until months after. Which was just as well because he wouldn’t have begun to know what wedding gift to buy the happy couple.

No. It wasn’t funny, but it wasn’t tragedy either. They had both survived and life had gone on. Something Swift was quite proud of.

But he didn’t like funerals. And he was not looking forward to this one.

Chapter Fifteen

You did not make a choice or follow any direction, but somehow you are descending from space—approaching a great, glowing sphere. It is Edonia, the planet of paradise of which you have heard so much. As your ship slowly descends, you look down on the emerald land and azure waters. Before you is a crystal city sparkling in the sun.

That planet of paradise always did seem like the crackiest of the CYOA books. Choosing not to choose. The philosophy of apathy. Very Zen. What kind of lesson was that? Life didn’t work like that. You had to make choices and accept responsibility.

If anyone knew that, Swift did.

It took some people longer than others—and some people never got there at all. He wondered if Nerine Corelli was one of those. He wondered if she regretted any of her choices. She looked composed enough standing there in the front-row pew. He had seen marble effigies look hysterical by comparison.

She had maintained that chilly composure all through the traditional requiem mass, unlike Cora Corelli who Swift had heard sniffing and occasionally sobbing through the hymns.

Tad, in his new suit, stood beside his mother. Ariel, in a demure navy dress that made her look about twelve, stood on his other side. Swift had watched her being snubbed by Cora, but Ariel was made of sterner stuff than some. Swift suspected she and Tad were surreptitiously holding hands out of view of the rest of the congregation. He was glad Max had not handcuffed Tad for the service. For all his toughness, Max could be very kind.

Speaking of Max, he stood in the row of pews behind Tad. At six four, he was hard to miss. Swift’s mouth quirked watching the restless twitch of Max’s wide shoulders in his brown corduroy suit jacket. Every now and then Max reached up to tug on his tie.

Not much longer now and Max would be out of his misery. And Tad would be back behind bars.

But not for long. Not if his alibi held up. And Swift was sure it would. He knew Max thought it would too.

He glanced around the crowded church—and it
was
crowded. Standing room only. You couldn’t move without brushing against someone else.

He tuned back in as the gospel was read. “Jesus said to her, ‘I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die, and whoever lives by believing in me will never die. Do you believe this?’”

They didn’t have eulogies in the Catholic Church. Swift thought that was a shame. He’d have been interested in hearing what Mario Corelli’s friends and neighbors might have to say about him.

He kept looking until he spotted Bill McNeill. He was in the pew behind Max. Bill didn’t look at Nerine Corelli. He didn’t look at anyone, as a matter of fact. He kept checking his watch. Maybe he had somewhere to be. What
did
ex-mayors do all day?

One thing for sure, if he was in love with Nerine Corelli, he hid it well.

Anyway, it didn’t matter. Not to Swift. Not anymore. Max was right. He’d achieved what he’d set out to do. He’d helped Tad to the best of his ability.

Beyond that…?

Swift had been keeping an eye out for Denny, but there was no sign of him so far. So maybe he did have that wrong. Not that Swift had a lot of experience at these things, but he felt sure that if Denny was in love with Nerine, he’d have to show up at the funeral. He’d
have
to see her.

Granted, it would be a wee bit awkward going to the funeral of someone you’d murdered. If you were at all inclined toward guilt, this would do it.

Cora gave another of those loud sobs. Tad awkwardly patted her back.

Her grief fascinated Swift. She had seemed to hate Corelli with such a passion, yet there she was weeping away with every evidence of sincerity.

Quite a contrast to Nerine Corelli. Maybe that was part of her incentive.

Detachedly Swift thought about his own death and who would mourn him. Max. Max would certainly mourn him if he died tomorrow. Next month? Maybe not so much. He smiled at himself because he knew that wasn’t true. For the first time in a very long time he
was
sure of someone.

And he was sure of himself.

I have come by the highway home,

And lo, it is ended.

Robert Frost, not the Catholic Church, but it seemed appropriate. Swift continued to watch for Denny and instead spotted Hodge standing two rows up from his own position. Hodge’s head was bent as he shuffled into the aisle for Communion.

Yes. Everyone seemed to be present except Denny. It might be significant. It might not.

He watched the priest conduct Communion, but his thoughts continued to range far. It didn’t matter who had killed Mario Corelli. It had never mattered to him, but he couldn’t help wondering. Maybe it was seeing how the death of one person could so affect an entire community.

Cora went up for Communion. Tad and Ariel stayed in the pew. Swift couldn’t see Max’s face, but he knew from the set of Max’s shoulders that he would look grave and alert. It must say something about their relationship that Swift knew Max well enough to know what his expression would be from his stance.

He wondered if one reason his mind was buzzing from thought to thought like an irritated insect was to keep himself from remembering the last funeral he’d been to.

Possibly.

He became aware that the coffin was being carried out and that the mourners were filing into the aisle. He didn’t want to get caught behind the crowd. He hated to be hemmed in, hated the crush of people pushing you forward.

Swift edged out into the aisle as quickly as was polite. Turning, he came face to face with Denny Jensen.

Denny looked tired and drawn. He met Swift’s eyes and looked briefly startled—as Swift must have done—and then he offered a polite, strained smile before turning away to join the slow train moving from the church.

Swift tried to find Max, but immediately following the end of the service he had gone out the side entrance with Tad and Ariel. There was nothing to do but walk down to the gravesite.

By the time Swift arrived, the priest sprinkled the open grave with holy water.

“O God, by Your mercy rest is given to the souls of the faithful, be pleased to bless this grave. Appoint Your holy angels to guard it and set free from all the chains of sin and the soul of him whose body is buried here, so that with all Thy saints he may rejoice in Thee forever. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

Through no effort of his own—in fact he had attempted too late to maneuver himself away—Swift was standing next to Dr. Koltz. Dr. Koltz was as thrilled about that as Swift, and after a tight, uncomfortable nod of greeting, he spent the minutes before the family arrived rocking lightly on his heels and clearing his throat.

Swift listened to the voices and whispers around him. Most people already had Tad tried and sentenced. It began to worry Swift. It was obvious that even if the charges were dismissed against Tad, he would remain guilty in many people’s minds.

And people being people, they would show their disgust and disapproval in a million tiny ways. Pinpricks. No mortal wounds, but even a bee sting could kill you if enough bees joined in.

Dropping the charges or insufficient evidence wouldn’t be enough for Tad.

It wouldn’t be enough for Max either.

Nerine arrived first, local reporters following at a respectful distance. She wore a black cashmere coat and the kind of hat that was more suited to Manhattan than Maine. A rhinestone dragonfly in her coat collar winked in the broken sunlight.

The reporters continued to hang back—though not far—and Nerine took her place at the graveside. Dr. Koltz quit shifting and clearing his throat. Nerine looked across at him and smiled. Dr. Koltz smiled self-consciously back.

Swift happened to be looking straight at Denny Jensen who was standing as close to Nerine’s position as non-family could get, and he saw Denny register the exchange of glances and the smiles.

Denny seemed to lose color. He stared expressionlessly down at the empty grave. His hands twitched and he shoved them in the pocket of his overcoat.

And just like that it was very clear to Swift exactly what had happened.

Well, perhaps not exactly what had happened—but
why
what had happened had happened.

It wasn’t Nerine who gave it away. She was cool and lovely and removed as behooved her in her role of society widow. It was Dr. Koltz standing so close to Swift that Swift could practically feel him vibrating. Dr. Koltz was a receiving device and what he was receiving, loud and clear, was Radio Nerine.