The white spire appeared ahead. Crawley slowed down and dropped back. He pulled over next to another squad car parked on the roadside and watched me drive on alone. Mourners’ cars lined both sides of the street. Damn! The press had gotten wind of the service—three vans with satellite dishes on their roofs had parked at odd angles in front of the chapel. A gaggle of reporters milled under leafless oaks that bordered a brick path leading to the chapel doors. Entering there would be like walking the gauntlet.
Lizzie was on the street in a black watch cap and navy peacoat. She had her camera slung around her neck, and she’d positioned herself by one of two black hearses. She appeared to be chatting up the driver. Smart girl. She’d get some dramatic shots when they brought the bodies out. But in about ten seconds, she and the rest of the press would spot me.
I spied a tall evergreen hedge jutting out past the chapel and remembered parking in that side lot. There was a second entrance that would offer some protection from the press. I sank lower into my seat, covered the bottom half of my face with my scarf and tugged the Ushanka down over my brow. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the reporters turn to check out my car as I sped past the hearses and veered around the corner into the lot. Grace’s Prius and a couple of other cars were there. I parked and hurried up the steps into the chapel before the cameras could catch up.
Inside, the vestibule smelled of furniture polish and old Bibles. A bulky radiator clanked and hissed against the wall. It masked the words of a female speaker beyond the inner wooden double doors. I checked my watch: probably thirty minutes since the service began. I realized this entrance to the sanctuary was located too close to the pulpit. It would disrupt the speaker and draw a lot of attention if I walked in there. Better to crack open one of the doors and watch unnoticed. Hoping for oiled hinges, I pulled the handle.
Sue Mickelson was sitting on the end of the pew directly opposite, listening attentively to whomever was speaking—I still couldn’t hear much over the radiator’s hiss. A fur coat rested on Sue’s shoulders. Blonde tresses curled down around a string of pearls that ended in the décolletage of her black silk dress. She looked like a sexy Blackglama ad. It wasn’t hard to picture Hugh with Sue. But as I watched her wipe a tear from her eye with one hand, I saw her discreetly place the other on the upper thigh of the woman next to her, a reedy woman in a masculine black suit who had short, dark hair and square black glasses. Their body language had me pretty sure Hugh didn’t score with Sue.
Adjusting my angle for a better view of the nave, I had to steady myself as my eyes landed on two imposing caskets. Large ebony boxes strewn with white lilies. Hugh was inside one of them, no doubt dressed in a suit he’d never wear and pumped with formaldehyde. I felt instantly, deeply sad for him. I wouldn’t feel this grief if I’d killed him. Right?
Behind the caskets, Helene’s sister spoke from the pulpit. I recognized her from the newsclip. She looked to be in her thirties. She had multiple piercings in one ear and wore knee-high black boots and a black motorcycle jacket over a black dress that ended midthigh. Her cheeks were stained with runny mascara. A section of her thick mane of auburn hair had fallen over one eye. She kept brushing it away with the back of her hand, revealing a mass of silver bracelets on her wrist.
There was a large projection screen in back of her—only a small portion of it visible from my post. I took a chance I wouldn’t be noticed and opened the door an inch more. I could finally hear her speak.
“I guess what I’m trying to tell you is I admired my little sister. You know, she had a rough time growing up.”
As she paused to pull a tissue from her jacket pocket and blow her nose, I crouched down to get a better look at the screen behind her. It featured an oversize image of Hugh and Helene toasting toward the camera at a Masout Gallery opening. The image cross-faded into one of Hugh and Helene hugging Callie in a canoe at Pequod Point. There was another of Hugh and Helene in white robes and sunglasses, grinning as they relaxed on chaise lounges by an infinity pool. The slides were a painful reminder of how happily Hugh’s life had continued after our demise.
“Our mother isn’t here today. Probably because she was too drunk to get on a plane. We haven’t seen my father since he left when Helene was ten—that’s when my mother started drinking. I was already at college, so my sister practically had to raise herself. Maybe that’s why she grew up to be someone who had amazing drive and determination.” Her voice cracked. “‘Maggot,’ she’d say—that was my nickname—she hadn’t been able pronounce the ‘r’ in Margaret when she was little,” Margaret said, losing her composure and pausing.
Helene’s difficult background came as a surprise. I’d always assumed it was because she was spoiled—used to getting everything she wanted—that she acted without regard to the hurt she caused.
After a moment, Margaret gathered herself. “‘Maggot, you need a vision of your life,’ my little sister would say. ‘You have to see things in your mind first and then make them happen. You have to manifest.’”
On the screen, a slide of one of Hugh’s paintings—one I hadn’t seen before—faded in and stayed there. It was a kitsch homage to American Gothic featuring Hugh and Helene in overalls. Helene held a pitchfork in one hand and with the other hand was touching the bulging belly she’d manifested.
“My sister’s way of doing things didn’t endear her to a lot of people. But I can only see her as that fiercely determined little girl. And when she grew up, she was determined to have a child of her own. The one she brought into this world is incredible.”
Margaret broke down completely and collapsed into sobs. Her anguish was heartrending.
“I love Callie. And I loved my sister. I can’t do this. I can’t bury her.”
A bald man in a dark suit swooped in from the side and ushered the distraught Margaret back to the front-row pew. I didn’t recognize him at first; his hairlessness threw me off. He wasn’t bald; he’d shaved his head. His face was gaunt and the skin under his eyes bruised purple. And he’d lost a shocking amount of weight in the few days since his appearance on the news. Tobias looked like he’d just gotten out of prison. Was his guilt eating him alive? Was his shorn hair a sign of penance or grief? When he finally returned to stand behind the pulpit, he didn’t speak. He took his time surveying the crowd. Then he picked up his Bible and waved it over his head.
“You don’t have to be a murderer to be a sinner, brothers and sisters. ‘As it is written, there is none righteous, no, not one.’ Romans 3:10. We are all lowly creatures of appetite. Weak and indulgent lovers of flesh. ‘We are all as an unclean thing, and all our righteousnesses are as filthy rags’ . . . We are sinners, all of us. Subject to the wily manipulations of the devil.”
He placed the Bible back on the pulpit and stroked it before continuing.
“And what is the Devil’s nefarious purpose? To close the gates of heaven and seal us in hell.” There was a wildness in his eyes. A cruelty that was frightening. “To condemn us to everlasting torment.
“But there is a clear path to return to God’s grace. Accept the one who willingly died on the cross so that you might be cleansed. Receive Jesus as your Savior.”