He paused and bowed his shaved head.
I suddenly knew why Tobias booked this “defrocked” chapel. He wanted to play minister to another captive audience. To stand up there and feel important and righteous. He raised his head and walked away from the pulpit, placing himself between the two coffins.
“My brother and sister here?” He tapped each of the lids lightly. “They were liars. Coveters. Adulterers. Their thoughts and deeds polluted with greed and carnality.”
I could hear the crowd murmuring and rustling in discomfort at this distasteful display. I hoped Callie wasn’t hearing this. I scanned the pews in my sight line. I didn’t see her. I did find a few other distressed faces.
“They worshipped at the altar of the devil. But still, we must forgive them. They began as children of Jesus.”
With a cheap showman’s sense of drama, he leaned down and kissed the top of one coffin, then the other, before turning to the crowd again.
“Whether they returned to Him at the end, we cannot know. I pray with all my heart that they did. So they won’t suffer the torments of hell. So they can rest in the loving arms of the Lord and enjoy eternity in his glorious Kingdom.”
He put his hands together. “Pray with me. Pray for them. And for Callie, their little girl. She is not here with us today—she is far too young to absorb all this loss.”
I felt relieved for Callie. Tobias closed his eyes and stayed silent for a few moments. When he opened them, I saw the glint of pride. And power.
“Praise God. All rise.”
Clothing rustled again. Pews squeaked. I stuck my head a little further into the chapel for a quick peek at the mourners. It was only three-quarters full. I guessed the majority of Hugh and Helene’s friends lived in New York City and would attend the service there.
“‘For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.’ Forgiveness begins here. Amen.”
A chorus of mumbled “amens” rose to a crescendo and then petered out as a recording of “Precious Lord” began. Tobias gripped a casket handle and waved for the pallbearers to join him up front. I retreated into the vestibule, closing the door. The sizzle of the radiator drowned out the hymn, but it couldn’t shut out my own chaotic thoughts. They were slamming into each other like bumper cars. I felt I would explode.
Tobias Walker was a twisted, sanctimonious prick—preaching about sin over their bodies. Using their funeral to gratify his need to aggrandize himself. Would he use their kid? Did he slaughter his own brother and sister-in-law like animals to get control of their money? Had he destroyed my life by setting me up to take the blame?
And Helene. Poor Helene. Her mother was a drunk; her father a runner. She’d been neglected, abandoned and most likely emotionally abused. Despite everything she’d taken from me, I felt sorry for her.
Wait . . . why should I feel sorry for Helene? My childhood was no picnic, either, and I didn’t go around getting myself knocked up by another woman’s husband. After shattering that woman’s life, I didn’t show up to plague her when she tried to build a new one. And look at how she burned Kelly. Kelly was about to have a goddamn baby, and it still didn’t deter that selfish witch. No. I was glad that Helene and Hugh were dead. I was grateful I’d never have to deal with either of them again. Happy they were off the planet.
God. Oh God. What’s wrong with me?
Did Tobias kill Hugh and Helene, or did I?
Wrung out, I just wanted to find Grace and go home. I opened the vestibule door again. A number of the mourners had already filed out of the chapel, following the coffins to the hearses. I slipped into the sanctuary and stood in the shadows against the wall, scouting for Grace. The white silk rose on her wide-brimmed black hat surfaced from the sea of black by the door. She was about to enter the media circus out front, and I wasn’t going to chase her there.
Sue Mickelson and her girlfriend remained in their seats, whispering to each other. They finally rose and brought up the rear of the line behind Hugh’s Latina housekeeper and her son. They were the only other people I recognized besides Grace, Tobias and his wife. Where was Abbas? Surely, he’d driven out for this. Who were the rest of these mourners? Granted, it looked as if Tobias meant what he said—“just family and a few local friends.” But not that long ago, I would have known everyone. It was as if the life Hugh and I shared for twelve years had never happened. It had been erased.
Sue Mickelson, towering in high heels, was gazing absently across the room over her girlfriend’s head when she spotted me. I saw her eyes flicker and her expression change. She leaned down and said something to her partner, who turned to look. So did the housekeeper and her son. The couple in front of them began whispering to each other, glancing furtively in my direction. Word traveled down the line. As more heads turned, my face flushed, and my vision clouded with tears. I was shaking with anger. I wanted to scream: “Did any of you people even know Hugh? He would have hated this funeral. He wasn’t religious!”
But I said nothing. I spun around and marched back through the doors and out of the vestibule to wait for Grace in the lot. On the steps I stopped short, still vibrating. Distant voices shouted—probably the press firing off questions around front.
Crawley had moved his squad car directly across the street and was watching me through the opening in the hedges. I wasn’t going to let him gawk anymore. Defiant, I charged over to my car, plunged inside and slammed the door.
Staring savagely at the side of the chapel, I cranked up the heat and switched on the radio. Scary pipe-organ music. I turned it off. In the quiet that followed, I heard a familiar voice torturing the English language.
“You are hearing me now?”
There he was. Abbas Masout rounded the corner on the path that led from the front of the chapel along its side to the parking lot. He spoke into the phone while bending and twisting his torso in search of a better connection.
“Hearing me now?”
He wore a black turtleneck under what looked like a black wool painter’s jacket topped with a black cashmere scarf. The man was elegant.
“Yes, come to memorial service at gallery tomorrow. Three o’clock. I am seeing you then.”
Of course Abbas was going to host the memorial at the gallery. That made sense.
“Sorry, another is calling. I must go. See you tomorrow.”
Abbas switched the phone to his other ear and craned his neck.
“Hello, Anina? Anina, did you get my message? I have tried to reach you. Sorry, I am in Pequod now. Yes. A small service. And Hugh’s brother wants estimation on his paintings, so I stay this afternoon.”