Ice Shear (11 page)

Hale nodded toward the reception area, where a few hundred people congregated. “I'm going to the reception room, keep an eye on things.”

“I'll go with you,” Dave said, and then more quietly, “Keep an eye on things in here, okay?”

I made a quick sign of the cross, helpless not to with my Catholic childhood, and approached Marty. A formal acknowledgment of his grief seemed appropriate, even if the rest of the room shunned him. I extended my hand.

“I'm very sorry for your loss. Do you mind if I sit with you?” I eased into the chair next to him. “Have you spoken to Danielle's family?”

We both winced; Marty was Danielle's family, too. We looked to where Danielle's parents stood. Amanda was leaning in, listening to an older woman, but Phil stared straight at us. Marty twisted his body, cocked sideways, his hip lifted off the chair, which gave him the comfort of not accidentally making eye contact with Phil. “Yeah. I offered to bring her favorite dress, for her to be buried in. A short black number. With the coffin, who would have known she was showing some leg?” His mouth quirked up, a half smile. “And I know that somewhere, it would have made her laugh. They said no.” Thus the pink dress, I thought. Marty continued. “Tried to pay for the funeral. Said no to that, too, said they'd arranged everything, and when I contacted some other funeral homes . . .”—Marty slumped down in the chair and extended his long legs, almost tripping a banking industry lobbyist—“no one would take my money.”

Ray hurried forward to the mourners' line, almost pushing Susie—as always in her Dunkin' Donuts uniform—into the white carnations of one of the two dozen or so wreaths that lined the walls. Jackie DeGroot and her father stood patiently, and I expected Ray to rush his girlfriend. She was dressed in black, but it was a sort of cocktail dress, sequined gladiolas stitched to the front. Tears welled up in her eyes as Ray approached a young man instead of her, slapping his back and calling him “bro.” The man, too, was dressed all in black: a button-down shirt, black pants, motorcycle boots, and a pendant on black leather laced around his neck. He was six feet four or five and towered over most everyone in the room.

“Awesome shit, son.” Ray's inappropriate comment carried over the crowd.

Marty watched the two of them through squinted eyes.

“I told him how to behave at a funeral. No yelling, swearing, all that sh—, er, stuff. We were raised in a barn.” Marty made a fist, three joints loudly popping. I must have looked alarmed because he apologized. “This weather, old injury starts aching.”

“Are your parents here? Your brother said they were coming in today.”

“No, the snow in Chicago . . . their plane got canceled. Tomorrow.”

“Did they know Danielle?” I asked.

“Yeah, she took herself up there to meet them a week before we left the coast, even though I told her why I cut them out of my life.” He stared at Danielle in the casket, as if willing her to explain herself. “She called me from Soledad, told me she went up there to thank them for giving me to her, like they had anything to do with the good. The good stuff, that's all AA. Anyway, it worked out, because she managed to talk them into letting me take Ray with me, which was a . . .” From across the room Ray barked out a laugh, and the room fell quiet. Marty frowned, dropping his voice, and I leaned in close to hear the rest. “Well, they must have liked her, because they didn't
kill
her.”

Another young man wedged in the door, blond curly hair and cheeks flushed bright red from the cold. Marty waved. The line of mourners edged forward, and I saw Denise Byrne from the pharmacy. Denise was the same height and shared the man's same fair coloring, although her blond was so bright it had to have come from a box. I would bet that the young man was Danielle's ex-boyfriend Jason.

I had met Denise during Kevin's illness, I couldn't say exactly when. I felt like I visited the pharmacy twice a day back then, picking up medication for the cancer symptoms or, more often, for the effects of the cancer treatment. Denise and her husband were always behind the counter—Byrne's was a mom-and-pop operation running three generations back. Several times she dropped off prescriptions at my house that the doctors had called in late.

“I can't believe you did this. You're a lifesaver,” I said the first night I found her at my door.

“Us little guys need to do something to compete with the big chains,” Denise said, spinning away before I could get out a “Thanks.”

I hadn't discovered until recently that Denise's own husband was sick.

“Oh, he's real bad now,” Lorraine told me one day, when I mentioned the favor. “The Lou Gehrig's disease is finishing him fast. I don't know how she does it all—him sick, and having to do all the work at the pharmacy on her own, especially when the chains are trying to eat her lunch. Her son helps her—he's a sweet kid—and he's always cheery, but me, I'd be more like you were.”

I was curious. “What was I like?”

“Closed off. Which I don't blame you. I'd be a bitch on wheels if I was going through so much stress. I mean, not that you were a bitch.”

“I'm kind of a bitch now.”

“Yeah, but no one can stand those chipper types, really.” She lowered her voice. “I mean, like Denise. She's sweet, too sweet, and while everyone goes through hard stuff different, we all know Denise's ‘Fine!'s' are a lie. But she's tough—it's not that she would ever ask for help.” Lorraine paused, head tilted, her shiny coral lips pursed, and considered. “Maybe she's not so different from you.”

Ray and the young man in black returned, Ray pointing at me and whispering, “Cop.” The young man looked to be about Marty's age, but his calculated swagger made him seem as immature as seventeen-year-old Ray. Jackie tripped along in their wake in too-high heels, skipping her last regards to Danielle.

“Hey, man,” the young man said, putting out his hand. Marty ignored it, reaching around to pull Jackie into the center of the group, thanking her for coming and telling her how pretty she looked.

“Jackie DeGroot, this is Officer June Lyons of the HFPD,” Marty said, all formality. Jackie didn't acknowledge me, adjusting her dress to keep the satin from bunching at the waist, with little luck—the dress was about a size too small.

“And this guy is Craig Madigan”—Marty rolled his eyes at me—“the Brouillettes' pilot.”

“Not their pilot.” Craig shook my hand, holding it a little too long. “I own my own airplane charter company.”

Marty snorted. “Your dad owns a charter company, you mean.”

Craig stood there, frozen, and Ray jumped in. “Hey, bro. Marty. We're going to take off for a while, go drown our sorrows at Craig's place. Can I go?”

Marty seemed to consider Ray's request. Ray was holding his breath, and surprisingly, Craig and Jackie were, too. Finally Marty nodded.

“All right,” he said. “You're going home with Mom and Zeke in a few days, so I guess you can have a last party with his friends.”

Tears welled up in Jackie's eyes, but Ray hopped from foot to foot, excited, before catching himself and returning both feet to the ground. “You wanna come, bro?”

“Thought I should stick around,” Marty said through gritted teeth, “it being my wife's funeral and all.”

The sarcasm was lost on Ray. “Yeah, man, that's cool. Maybe next time.” Ray, Craig, and Jackie were in the doorway before Marty called to his brother.

“You got your phone?”

Ray patted all five pockets of his cargo pants before nodding.

“Pick up if I call,” Marty said. Ray waved a yes as he walked out the door.

Marty shook his head. “Too late for me to correct his manners.”

“Ray seemed wired into his phone when I met with him. I'm surprised you had to remind him.”

“I check all his messages, so he leaves the phone home half the time. Probably figures there's no point in texting if he can't be a jackass.” At the last word several people shot us glares, and Marty lowered his voice. “Sorry.”

I wanted to ask him why he was checking his brother's phone but was afraid anything I said to him might be considered an interrogation, which he really didn't need right now. The smell of carnation wreaths was thick in the room, coating my nose and mouth. Carnations were everywhere when Kevin died. I wanted to spit.

Marty stood up as Jason Byrne approached.

“I'm sorry for your loss, Marty,” Jason said, and shook Marty's hand. Jason was wearing a light blue shirt and chinos, shiny with overwashing, a crease ironed into them. “Are you doing okay?”

Marty shook his head at the crowds. “Things are kind of crazy.”

“I left some coffee cake my mom made this morning with your brother. Did he give it to you? I know it's kind of stupid, but Mom said we can't afford to send flowers, like I wanted. And I know you have people dropping in on you, and you don't want to have to worry about feeding them, and it's what you do when someone dies. I think.” At this he stopped, having talked himself out.

“Well, I'm not much of a flower guy, so your cake, it was great—sorry for not thanking you before. The only people visiting are the cops, like Officer Lyons here.” He flicked a thumb at me, crooked from an old injury. “She'll probably want to ask you a few questions.”

“Of course. I'm happy to help.”

I stood up. “How about after the wake? We don't need to discuss police business here.”

He paused, darting a look at Marty. “I'm really sorry, I have to go back to the pharmacy after this. But we close at eight
P.M.
, so I could talk to you after. Unless it's an emergency.” His words slowed, and finally halted. He cocked his head. “Which I guess it is.”

As he gave me his number, Denise Byrne approached, her arms overflowing with two matching down jackets, a trail of feathers leaking from a ripped seam. “Jason, sweetie, I'm afraid you've taken more than five minutes. Every second here is a second the pharmacy might lose a customer.”

Little chance of that when every person in Hopewell Falls was here. “Denise, sorry for holding him up. Will you be available at eight as well? And your husband?”

“My husband?” she said, and Jason cringed. “He's sick these days, and doesn't really talk anymore.”

“He can
talk
, Mom.” Jason sounded insulted.

“I know, sweetheart. But do you really think it's a good idea, when it wears your dad out so much?” She reached out, ready to smooth back her son's hair, but at his glare her hand dropped. “But of course we don't mind, and we want to help out the investigation any way we can. Tomorrow too late?”

“We can come before work, as early as you'd like.”

“Come at seven. Jason, sweetie, let's get going.” Jason hustled out the door, brushing past Hale.

Marty touched Denise Byrne's arm, and then quickly pulled away.

“Ma'am”—Marty's proper streak was in full effect—“thank you for the coffee cake. It was delicious. I appreciate it.”

“Oh, I didn't realize—I thought it was going to our neighbors, the Brouillettes. But I'm
so glad
you enjoyed it.” She slipped from his grip and left the room.

“What am I doing here?” Marty whispered, so quietly only I could hear. He took in the suit he was wearing, the wall of wreaths, and the crowds. His eyes settled on Danielle, and for the first time I saw tears. Before I could reach him he clomped out. Seconds later, the back door hit the wall with a bang.

I twisted through the crowds to the hallway. Dave and Hale were writing down names from the guest book.

“Subtle, guys.”

“Oh, you mean like how you provoked the bereaved husband into storming out?” Dave asked. “Nice form, by the way. I decided to stay well out of it once I saw you had things so under control.”

A funeral home employee was plowing as I left. He was being thoughtful and discreet, making sure none of the snow blocked in any of the parked cars. The drive home wasn't bad, provided I kept the speed to ten miles an hour.

I was reaching for the lockbox when my daughter ran to the entryway. I quickly stowed my gun. With two parents in the FBI, Lucy had received the gun safety lecture early on, but I wanted to keep her curiosity to a minimum. To date, she'd only noticed my gun once, remarking how small my Hopewell Falls Glock was compared with the Sig Sauer I carried in the FBI.

“I'm the teacher,” Lucy called, waving two sheets of paper. She was wearing pink striped tights under a purple striped jumper, with a lime green belt tied around. Dad had lost the clothes battle again.

“Oh, really.” I sat down on the steps that led upstairs to wrestle my boots off.

“You have a quiz today,” and she showed me the handwritten test that consisted of a series of math problems written in Lucy's six-year-old writing, the ink purple and sparkly.

“Okay. Can I eat dinner first?”

“No!” Lucy yelled and grinned and, holding on to the banister, swept out in wide circles.

“No? But won't Grandpa be lonely?”

“No! It's not Grandpa. He's a student.” Lucy was now swinging closer, and making dramatic
whoa-oa!
sounds. As I stood up, my daughter careened into me, grabbing hold of my legs with an
oomph.
With Lucy still attached to my front, I backward frog-marched her into the kitchen, where my father was at the table reading a paper, spaghetti and salad—the greens a pleasant surprise—on the table. He had used my lusterware plates. When I'd moved in, I'd brought out the boxes of Depression-era china I'd collected since I was a teenager. I only had a chance to unpack one box before Kevin's illness worsened and my attention moved back to him, but my dad used the dishes constantly.

Now he peered at me over the top of his glasses. “How'd the wake go? Was every politico in the state there sucking up to our future vice president?”