See Also Deception (21 page)

“It had been a while, and I thought with all that was going on with Hank that you could use a visit. We haven't seen much of you at services.”

I wasn't about to be made to feel guilty for my lack of attendance at church. “Well, I appreciate it.” I pushed open the door and a gust of fresh air rushed inside the car, clearing out the last remnants of dog smell. Shep had stayed with Jaeger.

“Don't be a stranger, Marjorie. I know things are hard, but the Lord has a plan for us all.”

I stiffened. “Tell that to Erik and Lida, Pastor—or Calla. You tell them that,” I snapped, then as sure as Sunday came once a week, my face went pale, and a wave of embarrassment washed over me. Even I was shocked by my own lack of restraint, but I couldn't help myself. I couldn't believe murder was ever planned for the good of anything. That just didn't make any sense to me. The suggestion of such a thing just flat out made me mad.

Too his credit, Pastor smiled as I got out of the car. But before I could apologize, he leaned over and closed the door, put the car in gear, and drove off without saying another word.

I couldn't do anything but stand there and watch the black car disappear out of the parking lot, feeling like I had just irrevocably insulted one of the nicest men on earth.

There were only two or three seats open in the back of the funeral chapel. There were no more floral bouquets than there had been at the viewing, but they were clustered together in strategic spots around the room to make it look like an abundant garden of grief. The fragrance of more varieties of flowers than I could identify, or classify, had been dulled by the presence of humans. It looked like Easter Sunday at church, the pews full, everyone in their best clothes, though darker in nature, the air uncomfortable instead of celebratory.

Before I sat down in one of the remaining seats, I craned my neck forward to get a look at the front of the chapel. On one hand, I was thankful that the lid of the simple wood casket was closed. No one would have to see Calla in her final state, dressed in a borrowed pink sweater and with a bullet hole in the wrong side of her head. But that also meant I would never see her again, or be able to confirm what I had seen at the viewing. I was left with my memory and nothing more.

The front row of seats that faced the casket was empty except for one. Herbert Frakes sat alone, hunched over, staring away from the casket at something unseen. I was tempted to walk up there and sit down next to him, offer him some comfort, but my feet remained planted. That would have to wait. I wasn't family. I didn't belong there.

Organ music whispered over the crowd, who with their fidgeting and discomfort drowned out the peaks and valleys of an unknown hymn. I had nearly been late to the service, and as I finally took my seat the volume of the music began to increase.

I was seated next to a little boy who was about ten years old. He looked at me, then looked away. He had on a light blue, short-sleeved Oxford shirt and a pair of blue dress pants to match; his one and only best summer outfit that he was about to grow out of. He was a towhead, his hair shimmering white like an old man's. His hair was a common sight; I would have been more surprised to see a ginger haired boy next to me, or a black haired boy, like Pete McClandon must have been. I glanced over at his mother, Melba Olafson, and smiled. She smiled back. There were a lot of Olafsons in town, just like there were a lot of Smiths or Joneses in other towns. I was glad to sit next to a child; he had no clue what was going on.

Pete McClandon appeared at the open set of double doors that led into the chapel. He looked like I expected him to. Dressed in black from head to toe, his shoulders erect and his gray eyes curiously aware—searching the crowd or just gazing over it, I wasn't sure which. After a long second, he walked into the room and slowly made his way down the single aisle toward the casket.

But what I didn't expect, and it seemed no one else did, either, was for Pete to be followed into the room by Duke Parsons, Guy Reinhardt, and another sheriff 's deputy that I didn't recognize. All three men were dressed in their shiny best brown and tan uniforms, their campaign hats on top of their heads, their guns holstered with the snaps open. There was no question that they were here on business, not to pay their respects to the deceased town librarian.

A wave of murmurs reached my ears, and the music faded away. Suddenly, I was witness to a confusing spectacle instead of being here just to pay my respects. I was trapped, given no choice but to be part of something I had not intended to be. My whole day had been like that.

Pete and the trio of law officers seemed oblivious of the crowd. They walked straight to the end of the aisle and stopped in front of the casket with their backs to the crowd of mourners. They did not show their intention, and I could only guess at their purpose or reasoning. I should have been able to come up with something, but I couldn't. I was stunned.

The murmurs didn't so much as stop but seemed to take a collective breath, waiting to see what was going to happen next. Everyone, including me, had questions that needed to be answered. The main ones being,
Why here? Why now? Isn't this a sacred place? Couldn't whatever it is have been delayed until after the funeral? Away from the eyes of the whole town? Hadn't Calla's reputation and legacy suffered enough?

Only the boy next to me seemed not to be interested in what was happening. He stared at the floor, tapping his shoes to some unheard melody. I wished I could have traded places with him, but I couldn't take my eyes off the front of the room.

After a long second at the casket, Duke turned around and walked over to Herbert. Guy and the other deputy followed, stopped an equal step behind. Pete remained at the casket, looking over the crowd.

“Herbert Frakes,” Duke Parsons, the acting sheriff, said, “you are under arrest for the murder of Calla Eltmore.”

CHAPTER 35

I'd never fainted at bad news, and I wasn't about to start, but I had to admit that my whole body trembled as the word “arrest” echoed to the back of the funeral chapel. There were quite a few groans, some whispering, and then dead silence, as Herbert Frakes was handcuffed and led down the aisle, silent, shoulders slumped, eyes cast to the floor, offering no struggle at all.

The little boy next to me was interested now, and I wanted to do nothing more than shield his eyes. He didn't need to see this. But he had. A childhood memory that would mark this day forever. I resisted, held my hands tight at my side. Anyone in this room was bound to remember this day for a long time to come, not just the boy. Me included.

I thought the roof would erupt off of the funeral home once the police and Herbert were out of sight, but it didn't, not really. People talked, coughed, shifted in their seats, respectful of where they were. I think most folks were just stunned.

Pete McClandon stepped up to take control of the crowd, calm them, shush them; he was ready to get on with the funeral. It was a seemingly impossible task. Pete'd had a lot of experience with crowds, but my guess was he'd never had to face anything like this. I wasn't sure anybody ever had.

Then words and music melded into an unintelligible garble. My mind ran a million miles a second, sorting, searching, organizing—indexing, in an odd way—for any sign that led me to believe that Herbert Frakes was capable of being a killer.

Herbert? How could he have killed Calla?
He loved her; I was sure of it. There were, of course, things that I didn't know about their relationship. But what I had just witnessed didn't make any sense to me. At that second, I didn't believe that Herbert had killed Calla any more than I'd believed that Calla had killed herself. But Duke believed it. Duke, the acting sheriff, the deputy intent on winning the upcoming special election. He might have just sealed the win, catching a killer and bringing him to justice in front of everyone. Maybe that was his plan. The
Press
would surely have something to say about the dramatic arrest at the murdered librarian's funeral.

I just couldn't settle my mind to the fact that I had been right. But never in a thousand years would I have thought that Herbert really could have killed Calla—even though he had been on my suspect list in my personal index. Him and the woman with the broken glasses. I hadn't believed that either of them were responsible for murdering Calla. Not really. I had been grasping at straws. But maybe I'd been right about that, as well. Maybe I'd needed to trust my instincts more than I had. Maybe Hank had been right all along, too—right that Duke knew what I knew, that the police were doing their job. Which meant they had evidence and, most likely, more information about Herbert that I didn't, and couldn't, know.

I felt sick at the thought.

I looked over at the towheaded boy, who had gone back to being bored, tapping his toes to that unknown melody, wringing his hands like he was keeping time—or trying to move it along, I wasn't sure which. I wished I could join in with him, because I sure didn't like what I was thinking, or what I was hearing coming from the front of the chapel.

“Death is not an end,” Pete McClandon declared loudly, in a deep baritone voice. “It is only a beginning. A sweet peaceful rest from the madness of life as a human being . . .”

I was glad to have my own purse with me. I had a pack of Salems stuck in the side, and if I could have ever used a cigarette, this was the time. Sitting in the back of the chapel had its advantages. I was nearly the first person out of the funeral home at the end of the service. There would be no procession to the cemetery. Calla was to be cremated. And with the casket closed, and no family to console, the long trip to say goodbye had already occurred.

The threat, then dullness, of the morning sky had changed once again, to a nonthreatening blue with a few strokes of feathery cirrus clouds dabbed on it here and there. I had hoped to see rain clouds in the distance as I exited Calla's funeral. I had hoped that the world would show some grief and sadness. Lord knew we needed the rain, and there would be something to mark Calla's passing left behind.

I scanned the parking lot, looking for my Studebaker. Jaeger was supposed to deliver it here once the tires had been repaired, or new ones put on. There weren't many older Studebaker trucks in town, so my truck was usually easy to pick out of a crowd. But I didn't see it anywhere.

I stepped aside, off the walk, and found a comfortable spot out of the sun under a tall cottonwood tree. The grass on the lawn of the funeral home had been meticulously cut. Each blade was the exact same height. It looked like carpet, brown stalks with green tips, life trying to hang on through the seasons, summer stubbornly refusing to give into autumn. The grass would go dormant for the winter, and, to my disappointment, I saw no weeds to identify from where I stood.

No matter where I went, I felt the tug of work. I should be working now, but that was just impossible. I had to be where I was at the moment. No matter what.
Even if someone had tried to stop me.

I shivered at the thought. Could it have been Herbert who had slashed my tires and cut the phone line, all because he didn't want me to be at the funeral? Did he know what was going to happen? Surely Duke had interrogated him before he'd arrested him, checked to see if Herbert had an alibi, could account for his time? Maybe he didn't want me to see him arrested for the murder of my dear friend.

At the very least, it was an explanation for the incidents at the house this morning. But no matter how hard I tried, I still couldn't quite accept the idea that Herbert was a killer, that he had sneaked onto my land and slashed my tires. Shep would have barked, would have alerted me, and he didn't. The dog hadn't done his job, and something about that simple fact bothered me to no end.

Nothing made sense to me at the moment. I dug into my purse and pulled out my pack of cigarettes, just as the crowd began to push out of the funeral home.

I spotted Delia Finch right away, head above the rest, nose to the air, dressed in an appropriate black dress and hat and in a hurry to get away from the funeral home. She almost marched to the sidewalk and headed straight toward the library. I wondered if she'd closed it for the funeral and deprived the taxpayers of the opportunity to borrow a book. It was a catty thought. But I couldn't help it. I didn't like that woman.