The news reports failed to capture the sense of terror that gripped the area after Julia went missing, but I remembered. The town mourned the loss of its young golden couple. A Julia memorial erupted in the woods as her friends and neighbors left flowers and stuffed animals where her clothes had been found. With fresh worries about safety, parents drove their kids everywhere. The streets were empty by evening, as the children were brought inside. I was only fourteen at the time, and my parents had essentially locked me in the house for most of the summer. The pervasive apprehension was such that I didn’t even mind. Rumors of Julia sightings filtered back to Crystal Haven from as far away as Chicago, but gradually the search was abandoned and the town returned to normal. Milo left at the end of August. We knew because Tish told us she saw him packing up his rusty old Datsun. Once school started in the fall, Julia Wyatt became a faint echo for most of us. Her father insisted right up until his death that she was still alive.
The articles about Mike Jones were more interesting to me, since I had never heard that story prior to Friday night. The reports were thin and lacking the sensationalism of Julia’s case, although the journalist was much more dramatic than my parents had been. She described the frantic 911 call from a panicked Joe Stark, who had run through the woods and driven to a nearby gas station. Cecile, the young and pregnant widow, was depicted as a strong, but tragic figure. The shooting had been ruled an accident. Sara had clipped a business news article to this pile as well. It described the planned sale of Mike and Joe’s restaurant to a Grand Rapids investor. According to my dad, Joe Stark and Mike Jones started the restaurant together in the early ’70s. Joe had changed the name to Stark’s Place after he married Cecile and they became co-owners. In the margin, Sara had scrawled: Never sold? Check Milo’s birthday.
The beginning of an idea started to form just as my phone rang from somewhere under the couch. I fumbled with my computer and sent a sharp slice of pain through my shoulder as I tried to extricate myself from the couch and feel underneath for the phone. Baxter chose that moment to be helpful, and his large head blocked out any light that might have leaked under the sofa. It was a blind grope through slobbery upholstery that finally claimed the phone, but not before it had stopped ringing.
I listened to the voice message: “Ms. Fortune—Rupert Worthington here. I hope to meet with you tomorrow after the funeral. As Ms. Twining’s lawyer, I have some matters to discuss. Call me if this is not convenient, otherwise I will see you right after the services. Good day.”
I patted Baxter’s head, wondering where he would be spending his days after Tish’s will was read.
25
I was having an uncomfortable déjà vu on Wednesday morning as the organ music began and the church settled to listen to Reverend Frew. If the last memorial service had brought memories of my grandmother’s funeral, this one brought out the despair after her death.
It didn’t help that Tish had loved lilies. The sickly sweet smell filled the stifling church. The congregation fanned themselves with funeral programs and spread the scent all the way to the back, where I was seated. I had sent my family up front again, claiming that my arm hurt and I might need to step out. In reality, I wanted a good vantage point to watch the attendees, certain that one of the mourners had killed my friend.
I spotted Seth between Vi and Mom. Dad was next to Mom, his arm across her shaking shoulders. A few rows back I saw the gelled, dark hair of Joe sitting next to Cecile’s spiky blonde highlights. Gary sat two rows ahead of me, red-faced and sweaty. I tamped down a surge of anger at seeing him. He’d shouted at Tish and called her names just an hour before she was killed. Even if he wasn’t the killer, he had made her last moments of life unpleasant. I couldn’t find Milo in the crowd. And somewhere, I was sure, was the person who had threatened Sara through her website. Alex and Diana were next to me. Diana strangled my hand in her own.
Reverend Frew was fading in his conviction that Tish was in a better place. He’d been much more convincing with Sara, but maybe my own black mood colored his words.