The Perfect Stranger (21 page)

Chapter 10

Jaycee had spotted a Starbucks along the mile of suburban highway between the interstate exit and the funeral home. Now, making her way back, she keeps an eye out for it, desperate to grab a cup of coffee for the road. Good, strong, familiar coffee, as opposed to the watered-down stuff they served her on the flight.

Cory might tease her about her affinity for Starbucks, but there’s something to be said for consistency and availability. Especially when you’ve traveled all over the world, or been trapped in a prison cell—neither of which guarantee you a decent cup of coffee on a daily basis.

She should know, unlike Cory, who spent his life luxuriating in the concrete canyons of Manhattan and the rugged canyons of L.A., taking creature comforts for granted.

Zeroing in on the familiar green and white logo on a signpost up ahead, Jaycee checks the rearview mirror out of habit, to make sure she isn’t being followed. She half expects to spot the Crown Victoria from the funeral home parking lot on her tail.

But all she sees is a red pickup truck, a couple of SUVs, and a little white car, and they all fly right on past as she turns into the parking lot.

Good.

She’s pretty sure that the woman back at the funeral home recognized her—and that she happened to be law enforcement. But even if that was the case, the woman would have no reason to come chasing after her, right? Attending a funeral isn’t a crime.

Hell, some
crimes
aren’t even a crime.

No one knows that better than you do.

Not that she wants to think about all that now. She came here to escape.

Right. Brilliant move.

Most people needing a reprieve would hop a plane to some remote Caribbean island. But not you. Nope. You fly away to a funeral.

Yes, but a friend’s funeral—a friend who meant a lot to her. A friend she hasn’t fully allowed herself to grieve, even now.

But when you get right down to it, is she really here in Ohio solely because of Meredith? Ever since the others began making plans to come for the service this weekend, there was a part of her that wistfully longed to join them even though she knew it was impossible.

She isn’t one of them. Not really.

As usual, she tried to push the uncomfortable truth to the back of her mind. But it’s pretty telling that the moment trouble popped up and she needed to flee, this is where she wound up.

I guess I was meant to be here all along, watching from the sidelines.

So what else is new?

Jaycee parks the car, grabs her wallet from the oversized bag on the seat, and goes into Starbucks wearing just the sunglasses and of course her blond wig, but not the hat. Aside from baseball caps, no one around here wears hats, not even to a funeral. She should have known better than to choose a disguise that would make her even more conspicuous. She won’t make that mistake again.

Stepping across the threshold, she takes a deep breath of java-laced air and is instantly soothed by the familiar, manufactured-to-be-inviting setting: mood lighting, intimate tables and chairs suitable for one, hipster baristas, vintage crooners on the audio system. The people sitting and sipping are either caught up in quiet conversations, absorbed in their laptops, or plugged into headphones. No one gives her a second glance as she joins the line of people waiting to order.

When it’s her turn, she steps forward and asks for the usual: a venti latte with a triple shot of espresso.

“Name?” asks the girl behind the register.

“Annie,” Jaycee tells her, and watches her write it in marker on a venti-sized cup.

Annie was her first cellmate, a crackhead prostitute with three little kids and the proverbial heart of gold. She’d killed her dealer—or was it her pimp? Jaycee doesn’t remember the exact details of the case now; it was a long time ago and they weren’t cellmates for very long. She only knows that while Annie might have been a murderer—though she said she’d done it in self-defense—her odd blend of streetwise sass and protective maternal attitude helped Jaycee survive some rough days, and rougher nights.

“Don’chu forget me now,” Annie said before she was transferred to another jail, closer to where her kids were. “When I get out, I’m go’an come look you up.”

“I’ll probably still be here.”

Annie was already shaking her head. “You go’an get off, girlfriend. You mark my words.”

She was right.

Annie never did come find her. Chances are she’s probably serving a long prison sentence, or back on the streets, or dead.

But Annie didn’t want to be forgotten, and she hasn’t been. Jaycee uses the name now as her random default identity for Starbucks and anywhere else she has to place an order with a name attached. She used to choose something different every time, but that became confusing. She’d forget who she was supposed to be.

Even now, there are days when she forgets: Jaycee, or Jenna Coeur, or her real name . . . or any number of identities she’s used and discarded over the years.

She pays for her beverage and pockets the change. Back home in New York she’d have left it in the tips cup on the counter. Here, hardly anyone does that. She’s been watching.

When in Rome . . .

That’s the key to keeping a low profile. You fit in with the locals. Don’t provide reason for them to give you a second glance. Throwing tip money into the cup would necessitate an extra thank you from the cashier or might arouse resentment in the customers behind her; not tipping makes her just like everybody else.

Less than a minute later the barista is calling, “Ann?”

Jaycee thanks her and takes a sip. The hot, pleasantly strong liquid slides down her throat.

Ah. Finally, a moment of peace.

She eyes the seating area, spotting an empty table for one beside the big picture window facing the road.

Maybe she won’t take her coffee to go after all. It would be a relief just to settle down for a few minutes and check her e-mails and text messages. By now Cory must have figured out she’s gone. He’s probably worried.

He doesn’t know about Meredith, of course—and she has no intention of telling him.

As Meredith’s daughter finishes reading the last few lines of her poem, Landry wipes tears from her eyes with a soggy tissue. She can’t help but marvel at the young woman’s strength; can’t help but compare her to Addison.

If it were my funeral, she’d do the same thing,
Landry finds herself thinking.
She’s so strong. Stronger than I could ever be.

Meredith would have been proud.

The minister steps back to the podium with a few final words, and at last it’s over. The crowd begins to move.

Someone touches Landry on the arm.

She looks up to see an attractive African-American woman flashing a badge.

“I’m Detective Crystal Burns,” she says, addressing all three of them. “I’m assuming you’re friends of Meredith’s?”

Caught off guard, Landry nods.

“Mind if I ask how you knew her?”

It’s Elena who answers promptly, “Only through the Internet.”

The detective pulls out a little notebook, and Landry grasps that this is not going to be a quick, simple conversation.

“Ladies,” she says, “I know this is not the best time or place to talk. I’d like to take down your names and ask you a few quick questions, and then maybe, if the three of you are staying in town, we can meet a little later to talk further?”

Landry quickly speaks for all of them: “Anything we can do to help, Detective.”

The bag containing Roger Lorton’s final effects has been lying on the floor beside the front door ever since the detective delivered it this morning.

It isn’t until later in the day—much later—that Sheri finally musters the strength to pick it up and carry it to the living room, trailed by the puppy’s jingling dog tags. She sits in a chair and Maggie settles at her feet. She’s been sticking close to Sheri’s side these past few days, since Roger’s murder. Every once in a while she looks up as if there’s something she wants Sheri to know.

You saw the person who killed him, didn’t you, girl?

But you can’t talk, and whoever did it is going to get away with it.

Sheri dully looks down at the bag on her lap, fighting back tears.

Finally, she opens it and looks inside.

The first thing she sees is the wedding ring, catching the sunlight that falls through the window. She pulls it out, swallowing hard, and slides it over her fingers one by one. It’s much too big for all but her thumb. She leaves it there for now. Maybe she can wear it on a chain around her neck.

The bag’s remaining contents are meager. One by one she removes a house key, a small plastic bottle of hand sanitizer Roger always carried, a pack of cigarettes, and a couple of folded bills. Roger never keeps cash in his wallet, always places it in a separate pocket. Years ago, when they first met, Sheri asked him why. He said it was so that if a pickpocket robbed him, he wouldn’t be left without both cash and credit cards.

Whoever stole his wallet was probably looking for quick cash, probably drug money. Why else would you mug someone?

Sheri finds scant satisfaction in knowing that the murderer came away with nothing but credit cards, none of which have been used since the wallet went missing and aren’t likely to be now. Oh, and Roger’s silver lighter, the one he always carried. It’s missing as well.

About to set the empty bag aside, she frowns and peers into the bottom. Something else is there, a small, dark triangular object.

Pulling it out, she sees that it’s a guitar pick.

Certainly not Roger’s.

How did it end up with his belongings?

It must have gotten mixed in with this stuff back at the morgue, maybe fallen out of someone’s pocket . . .

You’d think the authorities would be more careful when dealing with someone’s final effects.

Final . . .

Final.

With a sob, Sheri crumples the bag and tosses it onto the floor. The wedding ring goes with it, sliding off her thumb and rolling across the hardwoods.

With a whimper, Maggie lifts her nose from her paws and looks up at Sheri wearing a morose expression, as if she, too, is mourning.

Remember me when I am gone away . . .

Beck still can’t believe her mother is gone.

The funeral had been as torturous as she’d expected; struggling to maintain her composure, she’d been relieved the moment it ended.

But now she’s crying all over again as departing mourners take turns embracing her. No one seems to know quite what to say, other than to tell her how sorry they are, or how much they’re going to miss her mother, or how fitting the poem was, or how aptly the eulogy captured Mom.

The minister hadn’t known her very well, but he’d asked the family to help him prepare, taking notes as they shared anecdotes that had them laughing and crying, often simultaneously.

“Thank you,” Beck says, over and over, in response to the compliments about the service and the expressions of sympathy.

Some comments and questions are unexpectedly awkward: a few people want to know whether the police have a suspect yet.

She just shakes her head.

“Do you have any idea who might have done it?” a woman—a total stranger—asks her.

Beck just shakes her head as her uneasy gaze seeks and then settles on Detectives Burns and Schneider, across the room. She wasn’t at all surprised to see them here today and knows it’s not simply because they want to pay their respects to her mother.

They’re thinking the killer might be in the crowd.

Beck is thinking the same thing. When she allows the thought into her head, it’s all she can do not to flee for the nearest exit. The rest of the family appears to be feeling the same way.

And Dad . . . poor Dad.

Every time she glances at his face, she feels his pain.

She just hopes the detectives can, too; hopes they know he couldn’t possibly be responsible for what happened to Mom. No matter what statistics say . . .

No matter what I saw that day last month . . .

He didn’t do it. It’s that simple.

“Oh, Rebecca . . .” A childhood neighbor grabs onto her, hugging her hard. “I’m so sorry for all of you. Your poor father is going to be lost without your mother. Just make sure you take care of him.”

“Don’t worry,” she says grimly. “I will.”

Climbing into the backseat of the rental car after a long, silent walk from the funeral parlor to the back lot, Elena is still rattled by the brief encounter with the detective.

The woman took down basic information—their names, home addresses, ages—and arranged to meet them at their hotel later.

“I wonder if she’s doing that with everyone,” she says as Landry and Kay settle into their seats.

Neither of them asks who—or what—she’s talking about.

“I’m sure she is,” Landry says.

“Probably,” Kay agrees, pulling on her seat belt.

“We should stop off someplace on the way back to the hotel,” Elena suggests as Landry shifts the car into reverse, “and get something to eat.”

Something to drink
is what she means. Her nerves are shot.

“Now?” Landry asks. “I thought we were planning to go out to dinner later.”

“We are, but we should get something now. Just, you know, something light. Especially since we have the detective coming to talk to us.”

“That might take a while. I could go for a cup of tea myself,” Kay agrees.

“I guess I wouldn’t mind some coffee,” Landry decides, and so it’s settled.

Coffee. Tea. Terrific.

Elena had been thinking along the lines of cocktails—a little more hair of the dog for her pounding head. The Bloody Mary on the plane had done nothing to take off the edge. And now they have to face a meeting with the detective investigating Meredith’s death . . .

I want a drink.

No. I
need
a drink
.

“There were a couple of restaurants back toward the hotel,” Landry says. “I’ll head back that way.”