“I’m very sorry for your loss.” Mark swallowed, looking around again. “How long were you and Samantha together?”
“We weren’t,” Jane said. “I never got the chance to tell her how I felt.”
A group of teenagers arrived in a collection of flailing legs, arms, and shouted profanities. They swarmed the statue, displacing the five-year-olds, who whined their resentment. When one of the young men swigged from a flask, the day-care workers gathered their charges and hustled them away.
Mark drummed his fingers against his messenger bag. “I’m very sorry,” he said again. “You said it happened about a year ago?”
“Today,” Jane said. “One year ago today.”
Mark gave a low whistle. “Now I understand. This is a vigil for your friend. And I interrupted you.” He waited a moment and then said, “I can’t imagine how hard it must be—I mean, hard to return to the place where she was murdered.”
“It didn’t happen here. It was deeper in the park,” Jane said, “in an area the police said has a sketchy reputation.”
“Not the Ramble?” he asked.
“That’s it,” she said. “I guess it’s popular with bird-watchers and for quick hookups. I’ve never gone in there myself.”
“There’s a stretch of the Ramble near the lake that’s seen a few assaults in recent years. Is that where it happened?”
She held up both hands. “No idea.”
Mark scratched his head. “Seems like a pretty bold move on the killer’s part. How did he do it?”
Jane made air quotes. “Blunt force trauma, according to the police. They found a tree branch nearby with her blood on it.”
“Blunt force. A less grisly way of saying she was bludgeoned to death. I’m very, very sorry this happened to her.” Shaking his head, Mark leaned back. “I’ve watched enough TV cop shows to know that murder is a messy business. The guy who killed her is either some kind of evil genius, or he got lucky.”
“Got lucky, I imagine.” Jane shivered. She sat up a little straighter. “It does help to talk. You were right.”
“Tell me about Samantha.”
A nearby shout interrupted them. A policewoman with a determined expression started up the steps, bellowing at the boozing teenagers. The paperback-reading woman didn’t flinch—didn’t even seem to notice—as the cop strode past.
The teens bounded away before the officer reached the top of the plaza. Two vaulted the low stone wall to the east while the rest scattered north, disappearing into the park.
Jane followed the action. “Cops never catch anybody anymore, do they?”
“I don’t think she tried very hard,” Mark said.
“That’s what I mean. They don’t really try.”
Tranquility restored, the officer took her time surveying the whimsical haven. She made a slow circuit around Alice, reaching out to skim the Mad Hatter’s brim.
Jane drew in a deep breath and blew it out. “I met Samantha only a couple of weeks before she was murdered. She worked at the yogurt place next to my office. You know how it is when you just click with someone?”
“I do.” Mark smiled. “I feel like that today.” He raised both hands. “I’m not flirting. I swear.”
Still gazing at the statue, Jane went on, “Anyway, what I felt for Samantha came on in a rush. Exactly like in a romance novel, where a character’s life shatters completely, and she knows she’ll never be whole again. Not without that other person. I’ve never experienced anything like it before.”
“That’s beautiful.”
“After Samantha and I talked a few times, I really thought she felt something for me, too. But she was so amazing, it scared me. What if I misread her? I was afraid that if I spoke up, I might ruin everything.”
“Go on.”
“I started stopping by the shop more often. I could tell she wanted to have a real conversation as much as I did, but every time we came close, customers would swarm in.” Jane rested a hand against her chest. “She had the sweetest White Rabbit necklace I’ve ever seen.”
“Was that her favorite character?” Mark asked. “Or was Samantha chronically late?”
“Oh, no. Samantha was conscientious and considerate.” Jane smiled. “I knew she liked to come here on nice days. Always with a book. I think it was her favorite place in the city.”
“It helps to talk about her, doesn’t it?”
“It’s so strange … you being here today … with that book. It’s like a sign, you know? And you really are a good listener.” Jane started to run her fingers through her hair but stopped abruptly. She frowned. “I’m still not used to this. I got it done this morning.”
Mark placed a hand on the slice of bench between them and leaned in. “You got your hair cut today?” he repeated. “On the anniversary of your friend’s murder? Wait, don’t tell me: Samantha wore her hair like that, didn’t she?”
“How did you know?”