“Dugan’s pretty new,” I said. “You guys get along all right with him?”
I felt like a teacher who’d just asked the class to explain the meaning of Moby-Dick. Finally one guy said, “What was your name?”
I shifted the briefcase and stuck out my hand. Only a couple of hands came out to shake it. “Bill Damen. And this is Jenny Ingersoll.”
Jenny, about to move forward to offer her hand, froze at the cold looks she got. Her eye began to twitch. I took the issue head on.
“You guys are scientists. What could cause the kind of allergic reaction Sheila had? It wasn’t anything she ate at our dinner party. Could it have been something from the lab?”
“Are you kidding?” one man said. “Regulations are so tight, you couldn’t catch a cold in there.”
Everyone was studiously avoiding our eyes now. We’d get no further with this group. I put an arm back around Jenny’s waist and said, “Nice meeting you.”
“I feel like a leper,” she whispered as we mounted the steps.
“Someone’s been spreading the news.”
“Geeks,” she muttered.
We crossed the stone porch behind Dugan. If he took note of us, he didn’t let on. But Englehart gave us a nod of recognition. I reintroduced myself and Jenny. His voice was strained, as if stifled by his shirt and tie. A rash ran up the side of his neck. Between his unease and the proximity of Dugan, I didn’t expect to get much from him either. I murmured a condolence and moved inside with Jenny.
We entered a large anteroom with the usual urns and flowers. Some couches that looked too soft lined the walls. Ensconced in one of them was Fay.
Jenny gave a weak wave and went to join her. I would have liked to have heard Fay’s excuses. But the sight of Frederick McKinnon through a big archway drew me into the next room.
The casket was here. Closed. I gazed at it and its swallowed secrets from a distance. An image flashed through my mind of Sheila being taken apart for the autopsy. What did the tissues tell?
Discreet organ music piped through hidden speakers wrapped us in a mild dolor. Grouped loosely around the casket were men, mostly, in dark suits. McKinnon’s lanky figure was front and center, with his shock of golden hair and those translucent eyes. His suit was navy blue and his hands were clasped behind his back. He was speaking to a broad-shouldered man with streaks of steel through thick black hair. I couldn’t see the second man’s face. He wore a double-breasted suit. His broad hands rested lightly on the handles of a wheelchair.
I lingered in the background and listened. McKinnon must have just arrived. He was speaking: “… such a tragic accident. You don’t know how sorry I am. Sheila was a natural scientist, exceptionally bright. Her work was first rate. I can only imagine how you feel—”
The broad-shouldered man hardly moved. His straight-ahead stare didn’t waver as he interrupted McKinnon. “Of course, you won’t object to a full investigation of the lab. Responsibility for Sheila’s death will be determined.”
McKinnon seemed like a man who was never at a loss. But this threw him. He recovered enough to say, “Naturally. Our doors are open.”
“I’ve spoken to Mr. Dugan. He’ll coordinate with our attorneys.”
McKinnon’s fingers tugged at one another. “I’ll do all I can. Speaking as a scientist, the likely source of the allergen is a dinner party she attended that night.”
Harros turned. His profile made me think of a grim Caesar about to pass sentence on a traitor. “Thank you. We’ll be looking very hard at that party. I received the autopsy report yesterday.”
“It confirms food allergy?”
Harros gave a curt nod. McKinnon appeared miffed that he didn’t elaborate, but leaned over the wheelchair to check on its occupant, a woman I took to be Sheila’s mother. She appeared far older than her husband.
I felt a tug on my briefcase. I turned to face a man about my age. Certain aspects of the face were familiar: the olive skin, the strong straight nose, the wavy black hair. Others weren’t — a thrust in the jaw, a sense of its own rightness.
“Can I put this away for you?” he asked, reaching again for the briefcase.
I gripped it tighter. “Thanks, but I’m all right. You must be Abe Harros. Sheila talked about you.”
“I don’t know you.”
“I’m a friend of Sheila’s from the city.” I went on to offer the proper condolences, working my way around to asking about the cause of her death.
He gave me a bald stare. I wondered if everyone got the same searching inspection. “The autopsy’s been done. We have a good idea what happened.”
His words sent a small bolt through me. I stepped closer. “What was it?”
His appraising look said he knew all, but wasn’t going to tell me. Before I could press him, there was a stir at the entryway. A scent of musk and roses swept into the room. It was Marion, managing to look sorrowful and at the same time utterly sensual in a black ribbed sweater and flowered silk shawl. Her hair was up in a French twist. She went straight to Mr. Harros, who was powerless to resist a consoling embrace. The woman in the wheelchair got the same treatment, as did Dr. McKinnon and another couple who apparently were Sheila’s aunt and uncle. Marion told them all that she was a very close colleague of Sheila’s and went on about how she was devastated by the unexpected event.
The room was in the process of settling down when men with carnations in their lapels started touching people on the elbow and directing everyone out to the chapel. The service would start soon. Abe Harros remained next to me as people funnelled through the doors. Leaning toward him, I said in a low voice, “Watch out for Neil Dugan. I hear he’s been trying to get his hands on your sister’s diary.”
It was a clumsy attempt to establish some kind of connection with him and take some of the heat off of Jenny and myself. Abe’s eyes shifted left. Neil Dugan had silently slipped into the room. He stood with folded arms, tie knotted hard at his neck, staring at Marion. I wondered how long he had been there and what he had heard.
I looked straight at him. A smile that said nothing crept across his face, but he never returned the look directly. The message, as I understood it, was that I was an annoyance barely worth notice. And that I would have no impact at all on his actions.
14
I followed the casket down a paved path to the chapel. Jenny was waiting well to the right of the entrance, looking a little forlorn. “Where’s Fay?” I asked.
Jenny hugged herself. “She kind of left me behind. I didn’t want to go in there with all those people thinking I was… Bill, it’s so weird. I’m starting to feel like I am guilty.”
I squeezed her hand. “Don’t let them do that to you.”
As we went in, arm in arm, I noticed a stairway leading to the choir. “Let’s go up,” I said. “We’ll look down on them for a change.”
From our perch, we watched the mingled elements of the crowd separate out like colors in a printing process. The family sat in the front. It was not a large group. Mrs. Harros was in her wheelchair on the aisle, shoulders slumped. Mr. Harros sat bolt upright next to her, then Abe, then the aunt and uncle. A set of younger people, cousins probably, were with them. Behind them were Fay and Marion, then Frederick McKinnon, Doug Englehart, and the bunch we’d met on the steps.
On the other side of the aisle was a group I’d seen only from the corner of my eye. Most of them appeared to be in their late twenties. A man with white hair sat at the end of their bench. Neil Dugan was behind them, and in the same row, separated by plenty of space, was Jill Nikano, Sheila’s allergist.