Death Takes Priority (19 page)

I
never attended a commemorative service without thinking of my parents' final memorial. Since I was barely sixteen at the time, and barely alive myself, though not from any physical condition, Aunt Tess had taken charge of the arrangements. I'd resisted any attempt on her part to include me in the decisions and choices.

She'd prepared posters with photos of happy events in our lives. Mom and Dad as Aunt Tess, Dad's sister, had known them—on ski trips, fishing, hiking, on tree-to-tree aerial tours in the Berkshires. All of us white-water rafting, ballooning, in attendance at concerts at the Tanglewood Music Center. I remembered staring at candids of birthday parties, graduations, bon voyage cakes, landmarks of favorite places.

Even then, I understood that Aunt Tess had meant well, trying to focus everyone's attention on the lives my parents
lived, beautiful memories. But I'd been in no mood to think of anything but my great loss, and deep guilt that I hadn't been with them. I wanted to tear the posters apart, burn them, stomp on the ashes, and scream for my parents to come back, to embrace me, to scold me, to smile at me, to send me to my room.

One of the photos showed me with Mom and Dad at my eighth-grade graduation. I stood between them, my dad's genes prominent as I was almost as tall as he was and already taller than my mom. I wore my hair down to my waist at the time. After I saw the photo in the mortuary on the day of their service, I cut my hair as short as I could get it and kept it that way until I was in college. The feelings I had during those years faded as I grew older, but it didn't take much to bring them back. Like today's service for Wendell Graham.

Wendell's service was at a different church in North Ashcot, a very small building closer to the edge of town, where he'd been killed, but they were all the same to me. This church was made of blond wood with off-white gauzy banners here and there and a choir dressed in off-white gauzy robes.

Sure enough, the table in the vestibule held standup posters with happy photographs. I caught a glimpse of the young Wendell in his quarterback uniform, cradling a football, and turned away. I could imagine the rest, whether I wanted to or not. I hoped the photograph-album trend would be over by the time someone had to plan my funeral.

I'd arrived late to this service on purpose, when most guests were already seated. I sat at the back. No one needed to see me fall apart, if that's what was going to happen.
Another advantage to my position was that I could see most of the mourners, seated in front of me, in case I decided to take notes. If there was any truth to the myth that killers always attended their victims' funerals, I was ready. Playing sleuth was a good alternative to breaking down.

I hadn't expected so many people to attend today. Perhaps Wendell's self-image, as reported by Wanda, was off-base, and he wasn't the loser he thought he was.

I spotted the town's elders, “Call-me-Moses” Crawford and Harvey Stone, who, I figured, were regular funeral goers. Coach was there, more formally dressed than he'd been at the impromptu meeting at the post office right after Wendell's murder. Under different circumstances, I might have taken my notebook and queried Coach, and everyone else as to why they were present.

I recognized many others from around town or as post office customers. Several people stopped on their way past my pew and greeted me in hushed tones. I smiled and nodded at all the “Hi, Cassie” whispers and the nudges. A few who knew we'd been friends those many years ago offered condolences.

“I know you were close,” said one classmate I vaguely recognized. I didn't correct her.

“So sorry for your loss,” said another, as if I, and not Wanda and the people in the front row, were Wendell's family.

I looked around for Barry Chase. I'd never met him, but I'd seen his photo and felt he must be here. Maybe representing his client Derek Hathaway, who had pressing business this Saturday. I examined all the suits I could see, searching for the most expensive looking. I looked for Mr. Comm and
Jimmy, Wendell's replacement at the phone company, but didn't see either.

Gert was in a middle row. I wondered if she had a purse full of her flyers. What a great venue to spread the word about the evil betting establishment and what it could do to a town.

I shifted my position to see the Graham family in the front row, across the aisle from me. I picked out Mr. Graham, Wanda's father; her older brother, Walker, from Florida; and her sister, Whitney, who'd moved to Maine for college and stayed there. I wouldn't have recognized any of them, except in this context.

I wondered if they'd all agreed on using the joyful photo array. I had to remind myself that people were different, that everyone grieved in their own way, and that, for some, the photos were a source of comfort. Maybe someday I'd be ready to derive comfort from such memorabilia, but not today.

At the front end of the aisle was a table with candles and a large photo of Wendell, as if the ones in the entryway weren't enough to bring us to tears. The setting, the music, the smell of candle wax, the hushed tones made Wendell's death all too real for me.

“Dear family and friends,” the preacher began.

Family and friends, I thought. And we're all sitting here, doing nothing useful.

I had a burst of awareness. It was time to find out who did this. No pussyfooting around, no following rules. What did it matter who investigated, who found a lead or searched out information, as long as the killer was caught? Someone murdered Wendell and almost a week later we still didn't know
who. It didn't seem right. Was I having flashbacks of my parents' deaths? The challenge thrust upon me to accept what had happened? So what? It didn't matter.

If the preacher hadn't chosen that moment to tap the microphone, starting the formal service, I might have stepped to the front of the church and announced an official interrogation of everyone present. No holds barred. Never mind that I noticed one of the last people to arrive, in her dress blue-grays: Chief Sunni Smargon. I was afraid she was going to sit in my row, but she marched toward the front and joined a young couple she seemed to know.

I settled down, but things were different for me now. I wouldn't be able to live my normal life until the world was put right for Wanda, especially.

I slid to the end of my bench, stood, and quietly left the church. As I walked the few yards to the rear door, with my back to the preacher, the mourners, and the gauzy banners, I felt all eyes on me, but the eulogy had begun and I detected no change in the preacher's words or cadence, and felt no arm on my shoulder to stop me. I reached the vestibule. Two large men, formally dressed in black, stood at attention as I approached. Without questioning me, they each opened one of the double doors so that I could exit easily, into the sunlight.

Neither man asked where I was going or why; I guessed I looked like I knew what I was doing.

*   *   *

For lack of other ideas, I drove home. The day was crisp and bright, in direct contrast to my mood. I wished last night's thunderstorms were back. What right did anyone have to enjoy clear skies?

I knew Wanda would be looking for me at the reception, as would Sunni. But I couldn't imagine myself standing around with a cup of coffee and a paper plate of snacks, chatting, as if we were having a picnic. Eventually, I'd admit to both women that I just couldn't take it.

My plan, such as it was, was to brew my own coffee, then sit down and organize my thoughts and information, starting from the beginning, which I defined as last Monday morning, five days ago. I thought of using a storyboarding technique I'd learned as a project manager.

I could buy a big whiteboard, or simply use large pieces of paper, and diagram the time line—plotting Wendell's murder and other out-of-the-ordinary events and activities, the suspects, and whatever shreds of evidence I had that were pertinent to the case. Something might pop out. I hadn't been that bad at math, and this project was like one of the proofs we used to do in geometry, or the logic puzzles I used to love.
If Wendell sat next to Derek, and Wanda did not eat the same snack as Quinn
 . . .

Maybe it wouldn't be as easy as I hoped to arrive at a solution, but I had to try.

I parked in my driveway, stomped up the steps, and opened my front door.

And surprised the man standing in my living room, his mouth and eyes wide open. Tim Cousins, in overalls, as startled as I was.

I knew he hadn't come for sugar.

“Cassie. I thought you were at the funeral service.”

“What are you doing here?” If I'd looked more closely at the scene, I wouldn't have had to ask. Tim stood next to
the easy chair he'd sat in last night, holding a thin black pen between his thumb and index finger.

“I was looking for this,” he said. More of a question than a statement.

I was stopped in my tracks, but not for more than a few seconds. I'd read enough thrillers and seen enough movies and television crime dramas to guess that it was no ordinary pen. Besides, the look on Tim's face, decidedly not made for poker, showed all. It was looking as though I hadn't been paranoid, at least not about Tim bugging my house.

He hadn't come for a pen, or my jewelry, or my cash on hand, or any valuable antique handed down from Aunt Tess, any more than he'd come for a cup of sugar yesterday morning. Tim had put some kind of listening device in my chair, and maybe elsewhere in my home.

“I thought you were at the funeral service,” he said again, clearly having a hard time believing he'd been caught.

“You said that. And I thought you were anywhere but in my house.” I looked more closely at the pen, tempted to step up to him and grab it.

He followed my gaze to his hand, his expression turning sheepish. “Cassie, I thought—”

“Please don't tell me you thought I was at the funeral service. You're bugging me in more ways than one. Is this the first time? Or the tenth?” I asked.

I held out my hand and he placed the pen in my palm. I turned the pen over and over, feeling its surface. I was amazed to find ink on my palm. Could this be nothing but a real ballpoint after all? I ran my fingers around the surface
again, pushing here and there, and found the “on” switch, so to speak, by sliding the clip down.

“I guess we'll be recording the rest of this conversation,” I said.

He gestured to the chairs around my coffee table. “Can we talk?”

I couldn't believe I acquiesced. How did I catch someone red-handed like this, and two minutes later let him engage me in a conversation? I was determined at least to take charge of the talk.

“Before I call the police, I'm going to ask you once more what you're doing here. Why are you bugging my house?” For emphasis, I pulled my phone from my purse and maneuvered my thumb into position for action.

He took a breath, picked up the pen, and switched it off. “It's a really neat thing. A gig of memory. You can listen to the recording through any headset, and you can download the audio onto a computer.”

“Tim!” I couldn't remember the last time I'd used my scolding voice, except in this room a few minutes ago.

I picked up the pen and switched it on. I hoped it wasn't more complicated than that.

He shrugged. “I'm sorry.”

“That you got caught, you mean. I need to know why, Tim. What are you doing here?”

“I can't really say too much.”

I tapped my phone. “Well, you'd better.”

Tim hung his head between his knees. I could barely hear him. “You don't understand,” he said.

He looked more frightened than anyone in my memory, the fear directed somewhere outside my living room. I
almost felt sorry for him. But it took only a moment's recollection of Wendell's murder, its effect on his little sister, and the events of the week for me to move past any sympathetic feelings.

I waved the pen between us. “Is this for Derek?” I didn't say that I thought Tim himself was a little too dumb to be the mastermind of some big operation that required unlawful recording of personal conversations, but he probably got the idea. “Do you want to pay for this crime all by yourself?” No answer. “You know, maybe I'm wrong and this
is
all your idea.” I moved the phone to my lap and flicked the screen on. I was one slide away from the chief of police, and Tim knew it.

“Okay, wait.” He blew out a breath. “Yes, the recordings are for Derek. They're voice activated.” He cleared his throat. “I've stopped in a few times to download the conversations and recharge the battery with my tablet.”

“You've been in this house
a few times
? Without my permission?” Now my voice wasn't scolding so much as it was a high-pitched whine.

“Derek needed to know what you were talking about with other people, what you knew about his”—he squirmed and seemed to have felt a shiver—“his activities. I'm just the guy way down the ladder from everything.”

I could believe that, but it didn't let him off the hook. I thought of my own desire to have Wendell's murder solved sooner rather than later, and how, in a way, Tim's intrusion into my home could help me fill in the many gaps in my knowledge. Was I saying the break-in was a good thing? Maybe, but he didn't have to know that. He just had to think that he had no other choice but to tell me everything he knew.

“It doesn't matter where you are on the ladder, Tim. Do you realize how quickly I can have a cop here, how easy it will be for me to press charges against you? Would you like to spend a night or two in jail while Sunni figures out what else you're guilty of, besides breaking and entering? And it might take a long time for me to inventory this whole house, to see what's missing. For all I know you've walked out with my property.”

“I didn't steal anything, and I wasn't really breaking in.”