"V" is for Vengeance (15 page)

At the office, I accomplished what I could in the brief time allotted. At 9:30, I locked up and drove back to my neighborhood. William, sharply dressed in one of the more somber of his three-piece suits, was waiting outside Rosie's when I swung by to pick him up. Now that he was “pre-diabetic,” he'd affected a cane, a handsome ebony affair with a thick rubber tip. We did the crosstown drive in a little less than ten minutes.

There were only two other cars on hand when we pulled into the side lot at Wynington-Blake Mortuary: Burials, Cremation, and Shipping, Serving All Faiths. I chose a spot at random. William could hardly contain himself. As soon as I shut down the engine, he hopped out and approached the entrance with a jaunty step, which he corrected moments later when he remembered his condition. I took my time locking the car, wishing I hadn't come. The facade of the building was blank. All the window openings on the ground floor had been bricked up, and I could feel a creeping claustrophobia before I'd even set foot inside.

Wynington-Blake occupies what was formerly a substantial single-family home. The spacious entry hall now served as a communal corridor, from which seven viewing rooms opened up, each capable of seating as many as a hundred people in folding chairs. Each room had been given a suitably funereal name: Serenity, Tranquility, Meditation, Eternal Rest, Sojourner, the Sunrise Chapel, and the Sanctuary. These rooms had probably once been a front parlor, a living room, a dining room, a library, a billiard room, and a large paneled study. An easel had been placed outside of Tranquility and Meditation, and I was guessing the others were unoccupied.

As we entered, the funeral director, Mr. Sharonson, greeted William warmly. William mentioned Audrey's name and was directed to Meditation, where her viewing was taking place. In a low tone, Mr. Sharonson said to William, “Mr. Striker just arrived.”

William said, “The poor fellow. I'll have a word with him and see how he's doing.”

“Not well, I'd say.”

As though part of a receiving line, I stepped forward and Mr. Sharonson and I shook hands. I'd encountered him three or four times during the past six years, though I couldn't remember ever seeing him outside the current context. He held my hand briefly, perhaps thinking I was there to mourn a loved one.

In the corridor outside Meditation, there was a wooden podium holding an oversize ledger, where one was expected to sign in. The pages were largely blank. Since we'd been so prompt, only one other person had arrived ahead of us. I watched as William stepped forward and dashed off his signature, after which he dutifully printed his name and added his address. I supposed this bit of information was meant for the family so they could send out acknowledgments at a later date. Surely, such lists aren't sold to telemarketers who call you up at the dinner hour, thus ruining your appetite.

The person who'd signed in ahead of William was a Sabrina Striker, probably the daughter or the sister of Audrey's fiancé. The address she'd listed was local. Her handwriting was so small, I marveled it was legible at all. I stood, pen in hand, reluctant to announce my presence since I had no real business being there in the first place. On the other hand, refusing to sign in seemed surly. I wrote my name under William's and when I reached the space meant for my address, I left a blank. On a table nearby there was a stack of printed programs that bore Audrey's name. William took one and went into the viewing room with an air of familiarity. No telling how many times he'd been here to offer his condolences at the passing of someone he'd never met. I picked up a program and followed.

I'd attended a visitation in this very room six years before when a man named John Daggett had drowned in the surf. Not much had changed . . . for him, at any rate. To the right, a sofa and several wing chairs had been set in a semicircle, suggesting an informal living room. The color palette was a wash of mauves, grays, and drab greens. The upholstery was neutral, perhaps selected with an eye to its blending with the other furnishings. There were two sets of tasteful drapes at windows I knew had no outside view. Table lamps provided a suggestion of warmth that might otherwise have come from sunlight.

The tone of the interior was appropriate for any faith, which is to say, stripped of religious symbolism or sacred ornamentation. Even an atheist would have felt right at home. A wooden accordion door had been drawn across the room, bisecting it. With so few in attendance, the fully expanded space would have been disheartening.

To the left, three rows of folding chairs had been arranged in a staggered fashion to allow a view from every seat, probably for purposes of the service to follow in the afternoon. There were two enormous urns filled with gladioli that I later realized were fake. I picked up the scent of carnations, though that might have been the result of a judicious spraying with a room deodorant. A floral wreath had been placed on either side of the mahogany casket, which was closed. The four-hundred-foot drop must have left Audrey Vance in a tattered state of repose.

William had assessed the situation and quickly fixed his attention on a fellow seated in the front, his head bowed, weeping quietly into a handkerchief. This had to be Marvin Striker. A young woman in a white T-shirt and dark blue blazer sat to his right. When William sat down in the folding chair on his left, Striker pulled himself together and wiped his eyes. William placed a consoling hand on his arm and offered a few remarks that were apparently well received. Striker introduced William to the woman sitting next to him and the two shook hands. I had no idea what he'd said, but both Striker and the young woman turned to look at me. Striker nodded briefly. He was neatly dressed in a dark two-piece suit, a man in his midsixties, clean-shaven and balding with a selvage of closely clipped gray hair. His eyebrows were dark, suggesting that his hair had once been dark as well. He wore rimless glasses, with thin metal stems. I hoped William wouldn't insist on introducing me. I was still half expecting to be grilled about my connection with the deceased.

I took a seat in the last of the three rows, the only occupant in the line of seats on either side of the aisle. The temperature was on the chilly side and I picked up the hum of organ music so faint I couldn't identify the melody. I was ill at ease, feeling all the more conspicuous because I was alone and had nothing to occupy my time. I opened my program and read the text, disappointed to discover it was a word-for-word duplication of the obituary I'd read the day before.

Audrey's photograph was also the same, except this one was in color while the one in the newspaper was in black-and-white. She looked good for a woman of sixty-three. Her face had been smoothed by sufficient tasteful cosmetic work to take ten years off her age. Gone was the furrow between her brows, taking with it the “mad” or “sad” expressions that women are persuaded to erase. Better the blank, unmarked visage that bespeaks calm and eternal youth. Her hair was a darker shade than the blond I'd seen at Nordstrom's, though the style was the same, short and brushed away from her face. She was nicely made up. Her smile revealed good teeth, but not so uniform as to suggest caps. She wasn't that heavy, but she was short, probably five two or so, which meant that every extra pound counted against her.

The newspaper had cropped the photograph to a head-and-shoulders shot. What I saw here was the loose-fitting, claret-colored velvet jacket she wore. Her necklace was clearly costume jewelry, a strand of big stones that made no pretense of being precious. The glittering red clutch she held was shaped like a sleeping cat and looked like the very pricy handbag I'd seen at Nordstrom's locked in a glass display case. Snitching it would have been quite the accomplishment.

The formal ceremony, spelled out on the facing page, had been reduced to a bare minimum: an invocation, two hymns, and remarks by a Reverend Anderson, with no church affiliation specified. I was unclear on the protocol. Was there a Rent-a-Reverend agency for folks who weren't members of a proper congregation? I was worried William would want to attend the service and I was already casting about for an excuse.

The young woman sitting beside Striker said something to him and then rose from her seat. She left the room as though on tiptoe, wafting lily-of-the-valley cologne as she passed me and proceeded down the aisle. William was still engaged in an earnest conversation with Striker. What could he possibly have to say to him?

I risked a glance at the door, fearful that Audrey's many nieces and nephews would appear, determined to make nice by chatting with the visitors, namely me. Aside from William and Audrey's fiancé, there was not another soul in the room. It dawned on me that if her shoplifting accomplice appeared, I'd be the first person she'd see. I eased the program into my shoulder bag, slipped out of my folding chair, and went in search of a ladies' room.

As I passed Tranquility, I paused to read the name on the easel. Visitation for Benedict “Dick” Pagent was from 7:00 to 9:00 that night with a second visitation from 10:00 to noon on Wednesday, and services Thursday morning at the Second Presbyterian Church. The room was spacious and gloomy. Table lamps were turned off and the only light was the block slanting in from the hall, broken by my shadow as I peered in the open door. A similar arrangement of wing chairs and a matching sofa occupied the area to my right. Glancing to the left, I caught sight of an open casket on the far end, a man's body visible from the waist up, so still he might have been carved in stone. I pictured a bit of scene setting before the relatives arrived; lamps turned on, music made audible, anything to suggest he hadn't been lying there alone. I backed up and continued down the hall.

Around the next corner, I saw a small informal sitting room with an adjacent kitchenette, perhaps intended for the immediate family if they were in need of privacy. Restrooms marked M and W were just to the left. The ladies' lounge was immaculate, a two-stall affair with a faux marble counter, two undermounted sinks, and a prominently displayed No Smoking sign. I smelled cigarette smoke and it didn't take a professional to spot the haze wafting up from one of the stalls.

I heard a toilet flush and the young woman I'd tagged as Striker's daughter exited the stall. No cigarette in hand so she must have tossed it in the john. She glanced at me briefly and offered a polite smile as she crossed to the sink, turned the water on, and washed her hands. Along with the blazer and white T-shirt, she was wearing jeans, tennis socks, and running shoes. Not exactly funeral garb, but an outfit I'd have felt comfortable in myself.

I went into the other stall and availed myself of the facilities, hoping to delay my return to the viewing room until more mourners arrived. I expected to hear the hall door open and close, but when I emerged the woman was leaning against the counter, lighting another cigarette. I resisted the urge to point out the error of her ways. I suffered the same conflict at the bird refuge, watching tourists feed bread scraps to the ducks when a Please Don't Feed the Birds sign is posted at the site. While I'm willing to allow visitors the benefit of the doubt, I'm always tempted to say, “Do you speak English?” or “Can you read?” in slow, clear tones. I haven't done it yet, but it does irritate me when citizens ignore plainly posted municipal codes.

Sabrina Striker's face was long. Her nose was narrow through the bridge and wider at the tip, which made the whole of it seem larger than it was. She kept her dark hair tucked behind her ears, which caused them to protrude. She wore no makeup and needed a better haircut. Perhaps because of the flaws in evidence, she seemed appealing, someone nice and unpretentious.

I took my time washing my hands. It's been my experience that women in ladies' rooms will tell you anything, given half a chance. This seemed as good a time as any to test the theory. I caught her eye in the mirror. “Are you Sabrina?”

She smiled, exposing a rim of gum above her upper teeth. “That's right.”

I turned off the water and pulled a fold of paper toweling from the stack. I dried my hands, tossed the towel in the trash, and then offered my hand. “I'm Kinsey.”

We shook hands as she said, “I figured as much. I saw your name in the book on my way in here. You're with that older gentleman who's talking to my dad.”

“William's my neighbor,” I said and left it at that. I leaned toward the mirror and brushed at one eyebrow as though smoothing the arch. I could see my mop was in need of a whack and I was sorry I hadn't tucked my trusty nail scissors in my shoulder bag. I usually carry them with me in the event of a styling emergency.

She said, “So, were you Audrey's friend or was he?”

“More him than me. I actually only saw her once. He was the one who suggested we attend the visitation,” I said, deftly avoiding the truth. “I believe the paper said she was engaged to your dad.”

Sabrina made a face. “Unfortunately. We had no idea he was that serious about her.”

“Was there a problem?”

She hesitated. “Are you telling the truth when you say you weren't Audrey's friend?”

“Not a friend at all. Cross my heart.” I made a quick X on my chest by way of confirmation.

“Because I don't want to say anything out of line.”

“Trust me. I'm on your team.”

“Basically, what happened was my mother died last May. My parents were college sweethearts, married forty-two years. Daddy met Audrey in a bar four months after mother passed away. Next thing you know she was moving in with him.”

“Tacky of her.”

“Exactly.”

“I take it you objected.”

“I tried keeping my opinion to myself, but I'm sure he knew how I felt. I found it offensive. My sister, Delaney, thought she was a gold digger, but I disagreed. Audrey was never short of money so I had a hard time believing she was after his. She was good to him. I'll give her that.” She reached over and turned on the water, extinguishing her cigarette before she tossed it in the trash. “Of course, she was a slut.”