Blind Spot (22 page)

She raised her eyes and offered an embarrassed grin. “I’m in a rush.”

He pulled his hands off the door frame and pointed a finger at her. “Don’t get rushed tonight. Don’t get sloppy.” He headed down the hall.

“Where do you get off?” she muttered to his back, and closed the door after him.

Twenty-three

Where does he get off?
simmered Jerry Fontaine.

Jerry was just inside the front door, fishing a pack of cigs out of his pants pocket, when the snake slithered into the mortuary and glided right past him. No hello and handshake. No signing the guest book and tucking a check in the memorial-gift box. He elbowed past a crowd of others in the hallway and dove right into the throng inside the chapel. To top it off, the reptile was dressed better than the grieving husband—and smelled better than half the women in the place. Jerry got a whiff of his cologne as he whipped past. Probably expensive. Not like Jerry’s drugstore aftershave.

Jerry went outside, lit up, and defensively assessed his funeral attire. The slate suit with its narrow lapels was dated, but his sons had reassured him that the silver tie was a contemporary width. The outfit was further redeemed by the crispness of his pressed white shirt. He reached up and laid his palm over his heart. Anna had ironed the shirt—and starched the hell out of it. There’d be no more crisp shirts at their house; neither he nor the boys had the ability or the desire to iron. That was all right. He sold preowned vehicles for a living, and people expected his ilk to look wrinkled. He tapped a tube of cigarette ash to the ground and at the same time inspected the shine on his black wingtips. He’d polished the shoes just before leaving home, having miraculously discovered the long-missing electric buffer in the front-hall closet. Anna would have credited the angels for the find, or chalked it up to one of those saints good at locating lost items. Which saint was that? He couldn’t remember. In his mind, they all melded together—except for St. Francis of Assisi. Jerry could remember him as the patron saint of animals because the fellow was always standing around with a bird on his shoulder.

Jerry nodded to a trio of women clicking down the sidewalk on their way to the mortuary. One of the gals reached out and squeezed his upper arm as she passed him on the walk. “We’re praying for ya, Jer.” He grimaced a thank-you. They were in Anna’s prayer group. They’d sent enough Bundt cakes to the house to open a bakery, but he knew that generosity would end the minute his wife’s coffin hit the dirt. He wasn’t cut from the same churchy cloth—the fact that he was outside puffing away was testimony to that. In fact, they would probably comment on his sinful loitering the minute they got inside.

He took a deep pull off his cigarette, released a cloud, and checked his watch. Where were the boys? They’d run off with their friends to grab some burgers and should’ve been back half an hour ago. It didn’t look good if the deceased’s immediate family was AWOL just as the wake was really getting rolling. He took one last pull and held it, enjoying the coolness of the menthol. He blew out the smoke and reluctantly threw down the butt. He turned and faced the mortuary with trepidation. It was like looking into the mouth of a beast, an old enemy to whom he’d lost his daughter and now his wife. He felt tears welling up in his eyes.

No crying, you big baby,
he told himself. Jerry stood straight, adjusted his tie, and hiked up his pants. As he headed for the door, he ventured one last look over his shoulder. No sons in sight. Worthless turds. Not like their sister. They’d better remember his cheeseburgers. Anna would have made sandwiches. So would their daughter. His heart lifted for a moment as he envisioned the two women making sandwiches together up in heaven.

His stomach rumbling, Jerry went back inside.

Bernadette pulled her gloves tighter over her fingers as she hurried up the walk. She put her hand on the knob, pushed open the heavy wooden door, and stepped into the lobby. As the door closed behind her, she inhaled the odors. Funeral flowers and women’s perfume and men’s cologne. Faint cigarette fumes. Beneath all of that, she detected something musty. Funeral homes always carried that musty undercurrent. If the souls of the dead had a scent, it would be that musty odor.

She saw a hallway to the right and another to the left, with a chapel at the end of each corridor. Both rooms were jammed with mourners; the funeral home was hosting two wakes that evening. “Excuse me,” said an elderly male voice behind her. Bernadette turned around and saw she was blocking a group of older men. She stepped to one side, stumbling over an apology as they went by. She hated wakes and funerals to begin with, and attending a stranger’s services by herself was torture.

She went deeper inside and, ahead of her, saw a magnetic sign perched on a tripod. “Gladys Johnson” had an arrow pointing to the left, whereas “Anna Fontaine” mourners were directed to the right. She hung a right, went down the hallway, and stopped at a podium sitting just outside the chapel. Atop the stand, a guest book sat open and ready for visitors to sign. She reflexively reached for a pen and stopped herself. Time to take away names rather than leave one. She checked and, seeing no one behind her, flipped through the signed pages, scouting for someone who’d used a doctor’s title. No luck.

She picked up a memorial prayer card from a stack sitting next to the book. The front had a picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe. She turned the card over and read, “In loving memory of Anna Fontaine,” followed by a prayer:

Our Lady of Guadalupe,

mystical rose. Since you are

the ever-Virgin Mary and

Mother of the true God,

obtain for us from your holy

Son the grace of a firm and

a sure hope. In the midst of

our anguish, struggle, and

distress, defend us from the

power of the enemy, and at

the hour of our death receive

our soul in Heaven. Amen.

She slipped the card into the pocket of her slacks. Next to the cards were envelopes for memorials. She picked one up, opened the flap, and slipped a twenty-dollar bill inside. She tucked it closed and—without signing the front—dropped the envelope into the slot on top of the podium.

Bernadette walked into the chapel and found it so packed with people and flowers she couldn’t immediately spot the casket. Running her eyes around the room, she counted lots of gray heads. A few young couples dressed in jeans were hauling kids around the room with them. The majority of mourners were well-dressed middle-aged couples—Anna’s contemporaries, she guessed. A wall of people on the left parted, and she saw a glint of dark, glossy wood. She negotiated her way through the crowd, aiming for the kneeler planted alongside the coffin. She’d say a quick prayer and then snoop around the crowd for her guy.

Before she knelt, she studied the figure in the coffin. Anna Fontaine was as Bernadette had spied her through the killer’s eyes, except better defined—like starting out with an artist’s sketch and filling it in with greater detail and color. Blond hair fanned out over the casket’s satin pillow, the same way it had fanned out over the bed linen. Anna’s complexion actually carried more color in death than it had in life—courtesy of the mortician’s makeup palette. Resting in the corpse’s lap was that chain of green beads held by the hospital patient—and now Bernadette could see it was a rosary and not a necklace. A small detail, she told herself, but perhaps she wouldn’t have made the mistake had she been truer to her Catholic faith.

She went down on her knees and folded her hands in front of her.

Jerry sneaked into the hallway as members of Anna’s prayer group started distributing rosaries to the chapel crowd. He needed a fortifying smoke before wedging himself back inside the sardine can. His sons had finally shown up—without his burgers—and they could suffer without him for a while. As he yanked open the front door, he heard the cadence of group prayer begin behind him. He slipped outside, and was immediately immersed in a sense of guilty relief.

He didn’t want to be seen by anyone glancing out the mortuary’s front windows, so he headed for the public sidewalk that ran along the mortuary’s front yard. Keeping his back turned to the building, he lit up another cig and took a heavy drag. Exhaling, he watched the nighttime traffic going back and forth on the street in front of him. He spotted an empty bus-stop bench on the corner and went for it. He lowered himself down with a sigh and stretched his legs out in front of him.

Behind him, he heard footsteps heading down the mortuary’s walk. They sounded like a woman’s high heels. Fearing a tongue-lashing if he was caught by one of the church ladies, he slunk down on the bench. As the
click-clack
faded, he turned and peeked over the back of the bench. He saw a blond woman heading down the sidewalk that ran along the side of the mortuary. Someone else had bailed from the rosary recitation and was fleeing to her car.
Good for her,
thought Jerry. He wondered who it was; he couldn’t recognize her from the back, but she looked vaguely familiar. He shrugged and resumed his smoke.

A couple of minutes later, Jerry heard a man’s heavy footfall and turned around in his seat again. The reptile himself was clomping down the mortuary walk. Instead of following the woman down the sidewalk to the back parking lot, he hooked in the other direction, cutting across the front lawn, and disappearing between the mortuary and the building next door.
Weird bastard.
Jerry turned back around to face the street. He hoped the snake would follow the Bundt cakes and vanish as soon as Anna was buried. He took a long pull, held it, and exhaled. Flicking the butt in the gutter, he eyed the corner liquor store across the road. He made a mental note to pick up a bottle on his way home.
Tonight would be a good night to get lit.

He dropped his face into his hands and wept.