“He was one of our own,” Winnie said, then sniffled and blew her nose with a lacy hankie. “Simply a darling man. A bookseller of sterling reputation and such a gentleman. So full of life. I’m… oh, dear, I don’t know what I am. Devastated. Utterly… devastated.” She swept her arms up to include the throng. “As many of you are, as well.”
Winnie Paine was a classy, authoritative woman who ruled the organization with an iron fist. I’d never seen her so overwhelmed with emotion, and watching her fumble her words made my throat swell in sympathy. I must’ve made some pitiful mewling sound, because Derek held out his handkerchief for me to use. And that was enough to cause my own tears to fall.
It’s been said before: Nobody cries alone when I’m in the room. As I dabbed my eyes and blew my nose, Winnie cleared her throat and introduced Reverend Anderson, a local Anglican minister, to say a few words of comfort.
A very tall, scrawny, middle-aged man with thinning hair came to the podium, opened a small book and began to recite prayers. “Most merciful God, whose wisdom is beyond our understanding…”
I tuned out, as I tended to do when religious people started praying on my behalf. I admit I could get a little impatient with mumbo jumbo church talk. I’d been raised in a commune with lots of all-inclusive, laid-back, cosmically lyrical preaching. But it wasn’t just about that. The good Reverend Anderson didn’t know Kyle and it was obvious. His generic words weren’t personal, and I wanted to hear wonderful words spoken about Kyle by someone who knew him.
But then, maybe I was being unfair. Perhaps his words were soothing to others in the room.
I glanced around, noticing the dark mustard wallpaper and somewhat tacky burgundy candelabra sconces for the first time. I imagined Kyle would have been appalled to know that his memorial service was taking place here in this generic hall. He probably would’ve preferred to be memorialized at an elegant winery somewhere in the Dordogne Valley, overlooking the vineyards and meandering hillsides dotted with castles and chateaux and old-world villages.
“Amen,” said Reverend Anderson.
“Amen,” murmured the crowd.
I stared at the backs of all the people and suddenly realized the murderer might be in the room. He had to be here, gloating. He wouldn’t miss it. The smug bastard.
The thought made me shudder.
Derek must’ve noticed, because he took hold of my hand and tried to rub some warmth back into it.
Next, Royce stood up and went to the front of the room. His eulogy was banal, but at least he’d known Kyle and could say something from the heart. His speech was mercifully short, and everyone seemed grateful for that.
I watched Royce as he walked back to his seat. He was a few years older than Kyle, about the same height but a bit pudgy and soft around the middle. I wondered if he might’ve killed his more attractive, popular cousin. I’d met Royce once or twice when I was dating Kyle but didn’t really know him. Which meant he probably didn’t hate me enough to steal my hammer and use it as a murder weapon.
Damn, that hammer was a real sticking point.
Winnie returned to the podium, scanned the crowd of three hundred or so and asked, “Would anyone else like to speak?”
She waited a beat, and when no one stood up, she said, “Is Brooklyn Wainwright in the room?”
“Huh?”
Derek was taken aback, too, and frowned at me.
“I didn’t do anything,” I whispered.
Everyone turned and strained to get a look at me. Was she going to point me out to the cops?
“ Brooklyn, dear,” Winnie said kindly, “I know you were one of Kyle’s special chums. Would you be willing to share some memories with us?”
I groaned inwardly. This felt too much like high school, with me in the role of bad student being culled from the herd for purposes of ridicule. I hated high school.
“Come on, dear,” Winnie coaxed.
Derek squeezed my hand. “You can do it, old chum.”
“Oh, shut up,” I whispered. Sucking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, I stood and walked down the long aisle to the podium.
I coughed once to clear my throat. “Kyle was, well, more than a friend,” I said humbly. “He was-”
A door banged open at the back of the room, and some woman shrieked at the sudden noise. That caused a few people to jump to their feet to see what the commotion was all about.
My view was blocked, so I stood on tiptoe to get a look. No luck. The chattering crowd grew louder as more people stood up to watch whatever was going on.
I left the podium and moved toward the aisle and finally saw what was causing the disturbance.
Minka LaBoeuf.
Why was I not surprised?