When he didn’t answer, she said, with a lift of her chin and an unpleasant smirk, “At least she left me her boyfriend. Although, to be honest, I stole him a little earlier than that.”
Sam followed her glance to a dark-haired young man slouched against a wall, the sole of his left shoe propped against the gorgeous wallpaper, his hands crossed behind his back as he rested his weight on them. The propped foot made Sam feel like a grumpy old codger; he realized that his first thought was: No manners, no respect for other people’s property. Figures, for a jerk who’d let one sister steal him away from the other sister. He felt pained on Priscilla’s behalf, but then thought maybe she’d got the better end of that particular bargain. The stolen boyfriend and the thieving sister deserved each other.
“Why didn’t your parents hold the service at their own church?” he asked.
“Because our minister might have said nice things about Priss.”
“Wow.”
“Hey, she’s lucky they didn’t hire a funeral home.”
“All this punishment just for being an unmarried pregnant teenager?”
Sydney shot him a furious look, which he received as an equal match to his own fury at all of them.
“What about you?” he asked her very quietly.
“What about me?”
“Your father—”
“Shut up! If you say anything else, I’ll slap you, too.”
Sydney turned away so fast that her long hair swung across her shoulders.
Seeing hostile looks from people around him, Sam continued on to the elevator and took it down, descending in regal solitude because no one wanted to ride with him.
Out on the street, Sam checked his phone.
His receptionist had texted: Cop wants to talk to you. She had left no name but did give him a number, which he called immediately.
The man who answered said, “Dr. Waterhouse. Thanks for calling me back. I’d like to talk to you about the murder of Priscilla Windsor. Where are you right now, sir?”
“Just leaving the funeral reception at her parents’ place.”
“Well, that’s a lucky coincidence, because I’m waiting outside there. By any chance, are you tall and handsome, with ridiculously great silver hair, wearing a really nice gray suit?”
“I think you have me confused with Richard Gere. I’m medium height, mid-fifties, black suit, graying brown hair.”
“Oh, okay, I’ve got you now. I guess we can’t all be Richard Gere. But, really, you’re not so far from George Clooney.”
“Detective …”
“Paul Cantor. Turn left, look ten yards down for a short bald guy in a blue suit that he won’t let his wife throw out.”
They shook hands, crossed over to the Central Park side of the street, and found a bench, where they sat with their backs to the park and their faces toward traffic.
Without a word, the detective handed Sam a long thin piece of notepaper with Sam’s name and office information at the top. Under that were the words TELL THE TRUTH, and then a list with an asterisk in front of each entry.
* Hotdog guy
* Dog lady
* Taxi drivers
* Sydney/Allen
* The Awful Parents
* The Other Awful Parents
* Dustin
All but the last entry had a single line drawn through it, as if each had been taken care of and then crossed off. Additional asterisks followed down the page, but nothing was listed beside them; she had either meant to add more or figured she already had plenty.
“Where’d you find this, Detective?”
“In her fanny pack. Do you have any idea what it is?”
“It’s a bucket list,” Sam informed him, and then he detailed the facts of the illness that had been set on killing Priscilla until someone took its chance away.
“Ah, some of this explains the funeral,” the detective said.
“I think so.”
“Hot-dog guy. That was amazing.”
“She was an amazing young woman.”
“Five thousand bucks. Makes me wish I’d had a chance to be rude to her, too.”
Sam laughed.
“You liked her?” the cop asked him.
“Oh, yes. She was a genuinely nice person.”
“Who might want to kill her?”
“What? It wasn’t a random guy?”
“We have a witness who saw somebody dressed like a runner near her building. Leaning against it, like he was waiting. Straightened up when she came out. Started walking, as if following her. Crossed a street when she did, turned the direction she did, and kept going after her. It didn’t look dangerous at the time, our witness says; it looked more casual. But that’s a hell of a casual coincidence—that he’d just happen to be hanging out near her building.”
“I don’t know what to say. Wow. That’s”—Sam stared at the traffic going by—“really awful. I can’t imagine who—”
The cop shrugged. “I’m thinking it wasn’t the hot-dog guy or that taxi driver.”
“Yeah.” Sam glanced at the detective. “I heard a story you didn’t hear. Remember the woman who got up to say something, but she never got a chance?”
“There were people popping up all over the place. I was at the back. I could see all of them. Which one was she?”
“Floral dress. Middle aged. Close to the front.”