I, like most everyone, felt overwhelmed. But I couldn’t bear to see the two of them dealing with this alone, and so publicly, so I knelt down, touched a hand lightly to each of their backs, and said, “Hey.”
Another woman knelt on the other side of them. She looked, at a glance, like Ann Slocum. She flashed me an awkward smile. “I’m Janice,” she said. “Ann’s sister.”
“Glen,” I said, taking a hand off Kelly’s back and offering it.
“Why don’t I get the girls some refreshments?” she said. “Somewhere a little more private.”
I hadn’t wanted to let Kelly out of my sight, but at that moment, letting the girls be together seemed to make a lot of sense. “Sure,” I said. Janice led Kelly and Emily, walking with their arms around each other, out of the room. In one respect, however, I was relieved. Across the room, the casket containing the body of Ann Slocum, unlike my wife’s, was open. I didn’t want Kelly to see Emily’s mother in repose. I didn’t want to have to explain why Ann’s face could be made suitable for viewing and her mother’s could not.
“That just broke my heart,” a woman said behind me. I turned. It was Belinda Morton. Standing beside her was her husband. “Never in my life have I seen anything so sad.”
George Morton, in a black suit, white shirt with French cuffs, and a red tie, extended a hand. I took it, somewhat reluctantly, since he was reputedly the one who’d pushed his wife to open up to the Wilkinson lawyers.
“This is all just, so, I just don’t know where to begin,” Belinda said. “First Sheila, and now Ann. Two of my best friends.”
I didn’t have it in me to offer any words of comfort. I was too angry with Belinda. But this wasn’t the time to get into that.
“We have to believe there’s a purpose in the way life unfolds,” George said, affecting his usual wise manner. I could see the purpose in punching him in the nose. He had a way about him, that he was smarter than the rest of us, talking down to us. Quite a trick, since he was an inch shorter. I had a good view of his comb-over. What surprised me, looking at his eyes beyond the lenses of his heavy, black-framed glasses, was how troubled he appeared. His eyes weren’t red the way his wife’s were, but they looked sorrowful and tired.
“It’s a terrible thing,” he said. “Such a shock. Just horrible.”
“Where’s Darren?” I asked.
“I’ve seen him around,” Belinda said. “Did you want me to find him for you?”
“No, that’s okay.” I didn’t want to talk to him, I just wanted to keep track of him. “Will you be home later?” I asked.
“I would imagine,” she said.
“I’ll give you a call.”
She started to speak, then stopped herself. George was looking off to one side, at the other people paying their respects, and she took advantage of the moment to lean in and ask, “Did you find it?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The envelope? You found it? Is that why you want to call?”
I hadn’t thought about that in a while. “No. It’s something else.”
She looked even more upset than when she’d watched the girls consoling each other.
“What?” George said, returning his gaze to us.
“Nothing,” Belinda told him. “I’m just… Glen, it was nice to see you.” There was nothing in her voice that suggested she meant it.
She steered George off in another direction to mingle. I had a sense Belinda knew exactly what I wanted to talk to her about. I wanted to deliver a few choice words about her decision to help Bonnie Wilkinson wipe me out financially.
I was left standing there with no one I immediately recognized to talk to. There were several tall, broad-shouldered men with short haircuts clustered together. Fellow cops-it didn’t take a genius to figure it out-but Darren wasn’t among them. I went over to where the coffee was set up and bumped shoulders with a short black woman doing the same thing.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“No problem,” she said. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Glen Garber.” I put down my cup and saucer so we could shake hands.
“Rona Wedmore,” she said.
“Were you a friend of Ann’s?”
She shook her head. “I’d never met her. I’m with the Milford PD.” She tipped her head in the direction of the men I’d just noticed. “I don’t work directly with Darren, but we’re always running into each other. I’m a detective.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, then added, “It always seems dumb to say ‘pleased’ or ‘nice’ to meet you at things like this.”
Rona Wedmore nodded understandingly. “Sure.” She looked at me curiously. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Garber. Glen Garber.”
“Your daughter, she was staying over with the Slocums that night.”
I wondered how she knew this, and whether she was somehow involved in the investigation of the accident.
“Well, Kelly was going to stay over, but she came home early.” When Rona Wedmore narrowed her eyes, I added lamely, “She wasn’t feeling well.”
“She’s okay now?”
“Yes, well, she’s upset, too. Emily’s her friend.”
“Was that your daughter, was that Kelly that was just…”
“Yes.”
“Your girl, she seemed to be taking her friend’s mother’s death pretty hard,” the detective said.
“She lost her own mother-my wife, Sheila-a few weeks ago.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss. Your wife, she…” Wedmore seemed to be processing information, trying to retrieve data buried in her head.
“An accident.”
“Yes. Yes, I know the one.”
“It wasn’t in Milford.”
She nodded. “But I’m aware of it.”
“First Sheila, then Ann,” I said. “I think it’s hardest on the girls. Speaking of which, I’m going to find mine now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Wedmore smiled as I moved away. Carrying my coffee, I worked my way through the crowd and over to the door. I thought maybe I’d find the two girls out in the hall, but they weren’t there. The funeral home had several other reception rooms, and as far as I could tell the only one in use was the one for the Slocums.
I moved down the hall, poking my head into one room, then the next. I heard someone scurrying behind me, and saw Emily. She was alone.
“Emily!” I called softly.
She whirled around. “Hi, Mr. Garber.”
“Where’s Kelly? Isn’t she with you?”
The girl shook her head and pointed to a closed door. “She’s in there.” And then she darted off.
The door was marked KITCHEN and instead of a knob had a brass plate. I pushed and the door gave way on its swing hinges. It was bigger than a standard kitchen, no doubt used to prepare foods for events that demanded more than just coffee.
“Kelly?” I called.
I stepped into the room and saw Kelly sitting on one of the counters, her legs dangling over the side. Standing before her was Darren Slocum. He would have had to pick Kelly up for her to be sitting there, almost eye to eye with him.
“Glen,” he said.
“Daddy,” Kelly said, her eyes wide.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked, closing the distance between Slocum and me.
“We were just talking,” he said. “I was just asking Kelly here a couple of questions about-”
My fist caught him squarely on the chin. Kelly screamed as Slocum stumbled back into a shelving unit loaded with oversized pots. Two of them went crashing to the floor. Orchestra cymbals would have made less noise.
It wasn’t long before the screams and the pots brought us an audience. One of the funeral home directors, a woman I didn’t know, and a couple of big guys I suspected were cops burst through the door. They saw Slocum rubbing his chin, feeling the trickle of blood that was coming down from the corner of his mouth. And then they saw me, my hand still shaped into a fist.
The cops started to move on me.
“No, no!” Slocum said, holding up his hand. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”