Imagining himself so irresistible and smooth, such a studly operator, that Joey-in some impulsive swoon-would have shredded their pre-nuptial agreement and decided to leave him everything. Knowing Chaz, he'd already conjured a theory to explain the stunning turn of events. He probably figured that Joey had planned to surprise him with the good news on that final night of the cruise, but she'd never gotten the chance. Then, after she was gone, Corbett had anonymously slipped the will to Rolvaag in order to stir suspicion about what had happened; to brand Chaz with a clear motive for murdering his sister.
At least that's how Chaz might put it together, Joey thought. The appeal of inheriting $13 million would bring its own sunny plausibility, regardless of the odds.
Joey returned the document to the backpack, then turned off the CD player. When she approached the aquarium, the fish rose up in a manic glitter of anticipation. The man from the pet shop had restocked the decimated tank with neon gobies, a rainbow of wrasses, a butterfly fish, a queen angel, two clownfish and a yellow tang. Their life expectancy would be short under Chaz's inattentive guardianship, but for now all the fish were frisky and bright. Joey sprinkled three pinches of flaked food into the water and watched the kaleidoscopic frenzy.
The decorative centerpiece of the aquarium was a ceramic shipwreck, a schooner keeled bow-first in the gravel. Joey dug into her jeans and took out her platinum wedding band, bouncing it in the palm of one hand. She didn't bother to re-read the engraving on the inner rim, which she knew by heart: "To Joey, the girl of my dreams. Love, CRP." Joey closed her fist around the ring and, with the other hand, lifted the lid off the tank.
"Try nightmares, schmucko," she said. "Girl of your nightmares."
Chaz had settled in comfortably at the pulpit. Miraculously, the stiffness in his neck had vanished and the scabs on his face had stopped itching.
"I've gone over this tragedy a thousand times in my mind," he was saying, "and I can't help but thinking it was my fault. If only I'd told Joey to wait for me that night, if only I hadn't taken those few extra minutes in the cabin, we would've walked out on the deck of the ship together. She wouldn't have been standing alone at the rail in that slippery rain-I would've been right beside her, and this tragic accident would never have happened."
Chaz knew the risks of recounting such bald fiction before an audience of potential witnesses-any decent defense lawyer would have counseled against it. But Chaz thought it was important to show Rolvaag that he was sticking to his original story. At the same time, he couldn't resist the opportunity to feed speculation that Joey had been battling with inner demons so dreadful, she'd confided in no one, and that she might even have done herself in.
"I've replayed the evening over and over again in my head," Chaz said, "but there are always more questions than answers. How many of you have read a book called Madame Bovary?"
As expected, all the members of Joey's book group raised their hands. So did Karl Rolvaag and perhaps a dozen others in the church. Chaz said, "Joey was reading this novel on our cruise. Afterward I got curious and read it myself." In truth, he'd pulled a two-paragraph synopsis from a Flaubert fan site on the Internet.
"It's about a young Frenchwoman who's bored and unhappy with her life. She marries a man she hopes will bring her excitement and fulfillment… a doctor." Chaz made his voice crack, so that even the dimmest bulbs in the audience could make the connection. "But it's sad, because Madame Bovary still isn't satisfied, so she sets off on all these escapades that bring her no lasting happiness. And at the end of the story, this poor confused woman winds up killing herself."
There was an uneasy hush in the church. Chaz pressed forward without pause.
"After finishing the book, I admit I was pretty depressed. I couldn't help wondering whether my Joey was unhappy, too. Whether she identified in some way with the restless wife in the story, and hid those feelings from me." Chaz lowered his head and let his shoulders sag. When he looked up again, he saw that the blackmailer appeared to be dozing. Meanwhile, Rolvaag's expression (or lack thereof) hadn't changed.
"But I've thought about it and thought about it," Chaz went on, "and after speaking to so many of you who knew and loved my wonderful wife"-another outrageous lie; he hadn't returned a single phone call-"I'm more certain than ever that she was a very happy person at heart. A positive person, as her brother said. A firecracker, as her dear friend Rose described her. A fighter and an optimist who loved life. That's the Joey Perrone I knew. That's the Joey Perrone I adored. And that's the Joey Perrone…"
At that instant Chaz was distracted from his peroration by a lone figure entering the church somewhat awkwardly on crutches.
"I will mourn for…"
A woman, Chaz observed, who was pegging purposefully up the center aisle.
"… for the rest of my…"
Some frizzy-haired klutz with a plaster cast on one leg, interrupt-
ing his big tearjerker finale. Who would be rude enough to pull such a stunt?
"… my, uh… my…"
Ricca.
No way! Chaz thought. It's not possible.
"… my life," he rasped, clutching the sides of the podium.
The assembly noticed his unsteadiness, and a ripple of concerned murmuring broke out. He forced himself to look away as Ricca sat down beside the blackmailer, who politely took her crutches and stowed them under the pew.
Fuck me.
The breath emptied from Charles Regis Perrone in a stale sibilant rush. He reeled from the pulpit and staggered toward the sacristy, gulping like a doomed tuna. He made it as far as the doorway before his legs turned to noodles, Tool catching him on the way down. Chaz lowered his fluttering eyelids to the mellow harmony of "Where Have All the Flowers Gone?"-a smooth and savvy segue by the Act of Contritionists.
Ricca whispered to Mick Stranahan: "You were right about that dick-head. He did kill his wife. He told me so."
"What happened to you?"
"Long story short-he dragged me out to the boonies and shot me. Can you believe it?"
Stranahan said he could, easily. "What are you doing here?"
"Freaking him out," Ricca said. "It's crazy but I wanted Chaz to see I was still alive. What can he do to me in a church?"
"Did you go to the cops?"
"Not yet, but I will."
"Can I ask a favor? Could you wait a couple of days?"
Ricca smiled. "So you really are blackmailing him."
"Oh, it's better than that," Stranahan said. "But in the meantime, you be careful. Chaz will insist on seeing you. He's going to beg and cry and probably offer you a ton of dough to keep quiet."
"And then he'll try to kill me again."
"Of course. But I'm going to give you a phone number. Be sure to call it before you go meet with him."
Stranahan scribbled the information on the back of a prayer card.
Ricca didn't recognize the name or the number, but she slipped the card into her purse. The guitar trio ended its song and the church fell silent. Corbett Wheeler returned to the pulpit.
"This has been a most difficult day for all of us," he said with a sideways glance toward the sacristy. "Speaking for myself, I still can't really believe my sister is gone. It seems like just this morning that she was teasing me about my farmer shoes and my Aboriginal haircut."
Everybody chuckled, but only Stranahan got the inside joke. Joey had needled her brother mercilessly while he was dressing for the memorial.
"Thank you all for coming today, and for sharing your memories. Joey would have been touched," Corbett Wheeler said in conclusion. "I know that many of you wish to express your condolences to her husband, Chaz. He'll be waiting to speak with you on your way out."
"Sweet," said Ricca.