“Then manage it. Or we’ll end up with some poor old lady getting run over, and you’ll be out of a job. Now I have to go. I’m delivering Kate’s eulogy.”
Jenny hung up resolutely. Maybe she hadn’t come right out and said it, but she’d hinted sufficiently to give Rizzo fair warning: If he didn’t change his tune and start working with her instead of against her, she’d have him removed from office. As mayor, Jenny wasn’t a dictator, but she wasn’t a pushover either. She took care of business when the situation called for it. Speaking of—she got on the phone to the town’s tow-truck concession and told them to boot that damn car and get it out of her parking space, ASAP.
Walking down Briggs Street, taking care not to slip on the ice in her high-heeled pumps, Jenny marveled at the size of the crowds. Cars were parked haphazardly on sidewalks, TV trucks blocked driveways, and reporters with recognizable faces did sound checks on the town green. Briggs Gate had been closed off by two Carlisle Safety and Security vans parked lengthwise across its expanse. One of the officers recognized Jenny and waved her through. The massive Gothic bulk of Mem Church sat just inside the gate, anchoring the west end of the Quad. Its grayish limestone fa?ade was a drab contrast to the mellow brick buildings around it, and looked sober and gloomy against the fresh white snow. But you couldn’t deny its majesty. From the tall stained-glass windows to the soaring steeple to the sweeping stone steps that fronted it, the church impressed. This was the place Carlisle reserved for its greatest dignitaries—Nobel laureates, presidents, literary lions, Eastmans. Jenny had to wonder if Keniston regretted the decision to hold Kate’s funeral here. It was looking more like an ambush than an honor. Keniston must be wishing he’d chosen some obscure country graveyard for his daughter’s funeral so he could mourn her in peace.
The massive wooden front doors were locked, so she went around to the side entrance, where another Carlisle safety officer stood guard. From there she took the elevator down to the basement, and walked down a long, echoing stone hallway to the suite of offices at the back, which smelled of burnt coffee and heating oil. When she walked into the conference room and caught sight of Keniston, Jenny struggled to keep the dismay from showing in her face. He sat hunched in a wheelchair, frail and shrunken, a yellow cast to his skin, his son Benji on one side of him, and Griff on the other. Keniston had aged almost beyond recognition in the year and a half since she’d seen him at Victoria’s funeral. Griff looked awful, too—pale as death, with a day’s growth of beard and dark circles under his eyes. Jenny knew Griff intended to be at the funeral, but with the press accusing him of murdering his wife, she’d wondered if he would change his mind. It took guts to show his face under the circumstances—and show it not only to the public, but to his wife’s family. Keniston seemed to be treating Griff with grave civility. Maybe he’d decided that the best way to handle the negative press attention was to present a united front?
Jenny went to Keniston and leaned down for an awkward half hug. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she whispered.
Then she made her way around the table, hugging Griff and Benji, and shaking hands with the Right Reverend Maurice Jeffries, Carlisle’s chaplain, who would be conducting the service. They spent a somber fifteen minutes reviewing the order of the proceedings. When that business was concluded, Keniston asked for a moment alone with Jenny. The others left the room, though Jenny wished she could beg them to stay. She’d been dreading this conversation for days.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Jenny said, before Keniston could speak. “Let me say it for you. I’m beside myself at the press coverage, Keniston. I’ve tried to control it, but the chief of police is new and he’s an outsider. He doesn’t understand the town, or the college. I believe he’s responsible for the leaks to the media, and I swear to you, I’m trying to rein him in.”
“You think I’m upset about the press coverage?” Keniston said, his craggy eyebrows drawing together. His voice might be weak with age and illness, but to Jenny, he was as intimidating as ever.
“I thought so. I am,” she said.
“At my age, you stop worrying about how things look,” Keniston said, “and focus on what really matters. I’m upset that my daughter is dead, and my son-in-law is accused of murdering her. That’s what I care about.”
“Of course,” Jenny said. “I never meant to suggest otherwise. I just thought, since you wanted to speak to me alone—”
“That I planned to scold you.”
“Yes.”
“And I do. But not about the press coverage. What kind of police department are you running here, that they go after an innocent man who’s grieving the loss of his wife?”
“I’m not running it. I told you, it’s this police chief.” She paused, letting his words sink in. “Are you saying you don’t believe Griff killed Kate?”
“Never. Griffin Rothenberg would not harm a hair on Kate’s head. That boy saved her life a million times over. He’s a saint. I was angry with Griff’s father, and I let that come between us for a while, but no longer. I have complete faith in him, and I plan to stand by him through this mess.”
“Oh, I agree with you,” Jenny said. “And yet—” Jenny paused, not sure she liked the repercussions for her if Griff was innocent—if the focus of the press, and the police, shifted away from him.
“Speak up,” Keniston said.
“I’m not saying Griff is guilty. But there is evidence. Kate filed for divorce and disappeared. There’s blood all over Griff’s shirt, and Griff’s skin is under Kate’s fingernails. She just came into some money—well, you know about that.”
“Griff has perfectly good explanations for all of these things. I’m hiring a private detective to work on backing up Griff’s side of the story. What I care about is having my son-in-law left alone and my daughter buried in peace. That’s where you could do a better job, Jenny. Control the press. Call off the police. Put this nightmare to bed.”
“I’ll try my best, I promise,” she said, nodding.
Keniston looked at his watch. It was nearly time for the funeral to begin.