As more people came up to the coffin, I retreated to a pew near the back of the church. The building was bone-chillingly cold. We should have all huddled together in a few pews.
I didn’t see anyone I knew among the few dozen mourners who dotted the space. No one from Club Gouge, for instance, and none of Chad’s Army buddies. Nor Rodney, the heavy from the club. Most of the people looked like relatives or perhaps coworkers of the Guamans. A man in a black cashmere coat, his hair cut strand by strand, the way they do in those Oak Street salons, stood to one side until he could speak to the family alone. Their doctor, perhaps, or someone from the airline where Lazar worked as a baggage handler. I built a fantasy for the family that the airline, saddened by all the Guamans’ losses, was setting up a college fund for the remaining daughter.
The priest appeared from a side door, and the family moved to the front row.
“Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord,” the priest began.
In my childhood, although I wasn’t a Catholic, I attended a lot of funeral masses for classmates—one of the by-products of growing up in a rough neighborhood. The mass was said in Latin then, and I’m still disconcerted to hear it in English.
I joined the congregation in a mumbled response to the prayers, our voices swallowed by the building before they could travel to the altar. We had reached the homily, where the priest was explaining what a devoted daughter and sister Nadia had been, when a door slammed and footfalls echoed hollowly through the nave. Everyone turned to look, and Ernest once again jumped excitedly and shouted an imitation of the sound.
I didn’t recognize the woman at first. In a navy wool coat and furry boots, she looked like every other cold person in the church. Her brown hair hung below her coat collar; a lock fell across her eyes, and she pushed it aside as she marched up the aisle. It was only when she passed me that I realized who it was: Karen Buckley, the Body Artist. For her act, she pinned her hair up on her head, and her heavy foundation drained all expression from her face. Now I saw the muscles around her mouth and eyes quiver.
She paid no attention to the priest, or even to Ernest, but walked up to the coffin and stared down at Nadia. The priest interrupted himself to demand that she sit down, that she not disrespect the service. Karen treated him as if he were a heckler at her body art act: he didn’t exist. After a moment, while we all watched in silence, Karen bent to kiss Nadia. The people closest to the coffin gasped, and Ms. Guaman half rose in her pew, but Karen turned and left, her furry boots squeaking slightly on the stone floor. When the street door shut behind her, the sound vibrated through the building like thunder.
I got up from my pew and hurried out after her, while Ernest shrieked, “They’re shooting. All the girls are dying. You’re next, Clara. Better get down. You’re next.”
The great door shut behind me as Ms. Guaman and one of the older women tried to hush Ernest. Karen Buckley was already opening the door to her car, a Subaru with the Zipcar logo painted on the side. I sprinted to the curb, skidding in my dress boots, calling her name.
“Ms. Buckley! I’m V. I. War—”
“I remember. You’re the detective.”
She had a lot of practice keeping her face neutral, and her eyes gave nothing away. They were a blue so pale that they seemed transparent in the winter light.
“I want to talk to you about Nadia. Where can I meet you?”
“Nowhere. I don’t want to talk to you.”
She started to get into her car. I moved quickly and braced myself against the open door.
“You knew her well, I gather, and I need to find out more about her. Did she ever talk to you about Chad Vishneski?”
“Chad Vishneski? Oh, the crazy vet who shot her. I hardly knew her.”
She tried to pull the door shut, but I’d wedged myself into the opening.
“Then why are you here? And why did you kiss her so dramatically?”
“I came for the same reason you did: to pay my respects to the dead. Perhaps my respects take a more dramatic form than yours.”
I shook my head. “If you came for the same reason I did, it’s because you have unanswered questions about her murder. It’s not at all clear that Chad was her killer or even that he’s crazy.”
She turned her head so that her long hair brushed the steering wheel. Her voice, when she again spoke, was barely audible. “I feel responsible for her death, that’s all. Something about the painting she did on my body stirred up Chad, and I came here to ask her forgiveness.”
She shot me a sidelong glance. “Does that satisfy you?”
“I almost believed you,” I said, “until you put in the coda. I’m in the phone book when you start feeling like telling me the truth.”