I ate my sandwich but avoided more coffee, knowing I’d only have to pee. There were no more comings and goings. I glanced at my watch. One twenty. Probably the only action I was going to see now was Sherrie coming out for the funeral, and sure enough, a minute later another black town car pulled up, this one so shiny it had to be from the funeral home. The driver, neatly dressed, rapped on the door and was ushered inside.
But then another car moseyed down the street and came to an abrupt stop, a dusty white VW Passat that seemed incongruous among the pickup trucks and old Fords on the block. And goodness gracious, guess who slowly hauled himself out of it? None other than Richard Parkin. Was he coming to tell Sherrie just what a piece of shit her daughter was? Or explain that he’d let bygones be bygones? Or to pay Sherrie off for lying about me?
I let a story play out in my mind. Richard had killed Devon, convinced that her death would be blamed on her own self-destructiveness. But then I started poking around, raising other theories. He quickly hatched a plot to undermine me. And who better than another journalist to realize how disastrous Sherrie’s call to my boss would be to my career? But how could he have formed an association with Sherrie? Maybe he had decided he could stomach it long enough to obtain what he needed.
I started to breathe harder, churned up by this latest development. If Richard were guilty, how in the world would I possibly prove it? Despite his propensity for booze, he was clever and wily, someone it would be tough to outsmart. Maybe Detective Collinson would at least be interested in hearing Richard’s history with Devon.
Richard was in the house just a few minutes—long enough, though, to hand over cash. The solemn expression on his face when he exited revealed absolutely nothing. By the time he drove off, I’d made sure I’d slunk down all the way in my seat again.
At 1:40 Sherrie Barr finally emerged, following the limo driver and propped up by two women. She was fifty-five, tops, and her physical form bore a striking resemblance to Devon’s, but even in my binoculars I could see that she was haggard looking, blotchy, and unsteady. I wondered how much of that was due to grief and how much to booze.
I waited for the limo to pull out before I started my car and followed at a distance behind it. I parked in the same spot I’d found before, two blocks away from the church, and made my way on foot to the outskirts of the crowd that had gathered. There were about two hundred people outside—local residents who’d come to rubberneck, and at least seventy-five press, a combo of photographers, print people, and TV crews, most of whom were doing a shuffle with their feet to stay warm. Usually with a crowd of onlookers and press this size, the noise level can get pretty high, but there was a funeral pall cast over this one. The only sound was the murmur of whispers and the hum from the TV vans. Scanning the crowd, I failed to spot Thornwell, but I did see, the Buzz staffer, Stacy, whom Jess had mentioned. I was pretty sure that in my getup, I wasn’t going to nab her attention.
I was just in time to see Sherrie stagger into church, and then the doors were closed behind her. It was clear that I’d missed all the arrivals—and the casket—while I was on my stakeout. I’d have to wait until the end to see who had showed. I held my position on the fringe of the crowd. Temperature-wise, it was only in the midthirties, and the wind had started to kick up, whipping around everyone’s hair. Even though I’d worn hiking boots and several pairs of socks, it wasn’t long before I was doing the foot shuffle myself.
The service lasted only about thirty minutes, and as soon as the doors were flung open, the crowd sounds swelled. Cameras began to click and TV commentators droned into their mikes. As you’d expect, Sherrie was one of the first to exit, along with her prop-her-uppers, followed by a cluster of people who were obviously friends and relatives. Scott emerged next, along with Christian, Cap, and Whitney, clutching Cap’s arm. So she was in town after all. She’d opted for a black mink for the occasion and her blond hair was brushed back, held in place by what seemed to be a matching mink headband.
And then, to a crescendo of murmurs from the crowd, came Tommy and Tory, holding hands. It looked as if Tory hadn’t let the fact that she thought Tommy was a loser and an asshole get in the way of some red-carpet-style shots that would be seen around the world. He was in tight black jeans and a black suit jacket, no overcoat. His ego clearly generated enough heat to keep his body warm in near-freezing conditions. Tory was wearing skinny, skinny black pants with some sort of tabs on the calves, black stilettos, and a black coat that seemed to be made of a techno fabric. While she descended the stairs, she flipped the hood up, revealing the thick black fur that lined the coat. Tommy might not care about the weather, but Tory was going for a downtown–meets–Doctor Zhivago effect.
Jane was one of the last to appear, followed by a spurt of people who looked like area residents.
No Richard, interestingly. And no casket either, I suddenly realized. That actually should have been the first thing out the door. Just as I was contemplating what was going on, I overheard a TV sound guy explain to someone that there was going to be no burial. It seemed as if Devon was going to be cremated. Maybe her ashes were going to be dropped from a plane over Seventh Avenue.
And then all of a sudden, I was staring right at Thornwell. He’d been tucked away in a throng of reporters but was visible now as the crowd had begun to disperse. I could have sworn he stared right at me. Had I been tagged? I wondered anxiously. But then he jerked his head to the left to say something casually to the man next to him and didn’t glance back in my direction. I exhaled in relief. Thornwell had definitely looked right at me, but clearly hadn’t realized who it was in the baseball cap, sunglasses, and butt-ugly parka.
Since there’d be no mad dash to the cemetery, I headed back to Sherrie’s. There were more cars lined along the street now, probably visitors at her house, and I ended up parking farther away than last time. But it didn’t matter. In the next half hour, no one of note came in or out of the house. There was no Passat in sight and no Beemer.
At three twenty I took off. I had promised myself I’d arrive at the barn a half hour early as a precaution. One thing I knew for sure. If a Passat pulled up, I was going to beat a hasty retreat. The fact that Richard had not attended the funeral indicated he’d come to Pine Grove not to mourn Devon but to discuss something with Sherrie. And if he were the person behind Devon’s death and Sherrie’s incrimination of me, I certainly didn’t want to be chatting with him at dusk on a deserted country road.
I found the barn again easily. Parking my car along the side of the road was going to be a hazard to anyone driving by this late; I realized that my only alternative was to pull into the short drive that led up to the double doors of the barn. I backed in so that it would be easy for me to peel out if necessary.
I stepped out of the car and surveyed the area. There was an outdoor security light shining already from the house on the rise, but no lights on yet at the farmhouse down the road. The sun hung low in the sky, shining dispiritedly. I glanced down at the ground. It was frozen hard, but there was one small area where I could make out the edge of a tire print. Had the person who’d texted me parked here earlier, checking out the location?
Back in the car, I took two unenthusiastic bites of the sandwich I hadn’t finished earlier and tried to stay calm. I had to hope that the person coming really wanted to help me. Regardless of who drove up, I wasn’t going to emerge from my car. I’d insist that we talk from our windows, and I’d keep the motor running. I just couldn’t let my guard down for a second when he—or she—arrived.
At ten to four, a car headed down the road from the south, the direction I’d come from, and my heart skipped. But the driver kept on without even glancing my way. The next ten minutes passed torturously slow. And then ten more minutes went by. And ten more. Someone, it seemed, had decided to play a nasty little game with me.