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“Becoming a woman?” Kate suggested.
Uproarious laughter at that. “Let’s say, a more mature woman. Going into my thirties, I hope not to repeat the mistakes of my twenties.”
“I can hardly wait until I’m the same age as you and I can go anywhere and do anything.”
Joanna nodded. “It’s pretty good, believe me. And what you gotta remember is, you can also be anything. Don’t forget that one.”
They sat without talking again for a long while. The sun was lower in the sky now and the west side of the bay was in shade. “It must be past five,” she said. “My turn to help set up for dinner.”
As she edged toward the ladder on the far side of the raft, Joanna suddenly put out a hand. “I hate to tell you, Kate, but I may even be leaving tomorrow sometime. Something’s come up.” She frowned and glanced away for a second as if she didn’t want Kate to see her face. “But I just had a great idea,” she enthused, turning back to Kate with a big smile.
Kate’s insides churned. “What?”
“Well, since it’s unrealistic for us to expect to get together on a regular basis, how about if we promise to meet someplace—we can decide where later—exactly nineteen years from today, July 14. You’ll be thirty—just about my age now. You can fill me in on how your life has turned out and I’ll…well, I don’t even want to think about it, but I’ll be looking at the big five-oh coming up. We’ll both be dealing with an age milestone. Sound like a good idea?”
“Yeah! But…what if one of us forgets?”
Joanna pursed her lips thoughtfully for what seemed a long time. Then she said, “We won’t because I’ll send you a reminder card every year—like a countdown.”
“Do you think you can remember to do that?”
“I promise you, Kate Reilly, that if I get one thing in my life together, it will be that. Okay?”
“How will you find me?”
“Jeez, you’re brimming with good questions. I knew from the start you were a smart kid.”
Kate beamed.
“Let me see…you give me your address before I leave and as soon as I get to New York in September, I’ll set up a postal box number for you. I’ll pay for it until you reach the age of…what? Twenty? Then you can pay on your own.”
“Nineteen,” Kate said. “Because I’m going to make it on my own before I’m twenty.”
“That’s what I want to hear! Okay, then. Deal? Shake?” Kate stuck out her hand.
YOU PROMISED, JOANNA, and since you’ve been keeping that promise for the last nineteen years, I know you wouldn’t have let anything stop you from meeting me last week.
The organist swelled into the next hymn as everyone stood. Kate now had an opportunity to scan the congregation in front and to the left of her. She thought she recognized a few people in amazing outfits. Perhaps she’d seen them in some of the many news clippings she’d saved over the years—articles and pictures featuring Joanna and various fashion-world celebrities.
She’d acquired quite a collection. It was one of the things she’d considered taking to their reunion, to show Joanna how she’d tracked her life through the years. But then she realized how pathetic that might look—as if she hadn’t achieved a life of her own. And she had. A very satisfying, rewarding life, though teaching elementary school was probably a bit tame by Joanna’s standards. But not bad, Kate thought, for a kid who’d been shuffled from one foster home to another.
After the hymn ended, the minister rose to introduce the eulogist—Joanna Barnes’s husband, Lance Marchant. Kate straightened. So, Joanna had remarried. Was this man number three or four? she wondered. A tall man in a navy pinstriped suit stood from a front pew and headed up onto the dais, pausing to place the palm of his hand on the end of the casket. Someone behind Kate blew a nose.
Joanna’s husband was a handsome, white-haired man who looked very familiar. Lance Marchant. The name rolled around in her mind, teasing her memory. Where had she seen him and why hadn’t she known about the marriage? Especially given her habit of snipping any mention of Joanna in the papers. She might have missed the announcement, or perhaps, for some reason, Joanna had kept the marriage under wraps. Another piece to add to the puzzle that was growing around Joanna Barnes.
Lance Marchant cleared his throat, cast a quick glance at the casket and began to speak. As eulogies went, Kate assumed his speech was the standard fare. Not that she was any expert, since this was only the second funeral she’d ever attended. He did refer to their brief marriage of less than a year, but claimed to have known Joanna Barnes almost twenty. Kate’s antenna rose at this. If she herself had first met Joanna nineteen years ago, then he must have known her earlier.
He continued extolling the talents and—with humor—the foibles of Joanna Barnes. It was an eloquent speech, Kate had to acknowledge. But that was the problem. Instead of a tribute delivered by a grieving husband, it had come across as a piece put together by some clever speechwriter.
When he finished, Lance Marchant stepped down from the dais and suddenly stumbled. Kate’s heart leapt; she wondered if he was going to topple onto the casket. But he caught himself, placing his hand on the gleaming oak surface and staring down silently for a moment, as if communing with his wife one last time. Kate squirmed. She couldn’t think why, but the scene embarrassed her.
Lance raised his head and walked down the aisle out of the church. As he passed Kate’s pew, she caught a closeup of his face—flushed now, jaw set in a tight, steadfast line. The other mourners followed in hushed respect. Kate sat until the last person passed. Then she stood and, on rubbery legs, made her way to Joanna’s casket.
There was so much she wanted to say, but finding the starting point was difficult. The whole purpose of their getting together again on the nineteenth anniversary of Kate’s stay at Camp Limberlost had been to compare the courses of their lives. Joanna Barnes had certainly not been a substitute for the family Kate never had, but she’d represented a kind of continuity in her life. No matter how many foster homes or bad times Kate had gone through, she’d always had that annual card to look forward to. And true to her word, Joanna had never forgotten, although once she’d been late.
Kate touched the casket, then flashed to the eulogy scene. She quickly withdrew her hand. It was too late to talk to Joanna now, and here wasn’t the place. She started to turn away when four undertakers from the funeral home filed through a side door.
“Are you finished, ma’am?” one of them asked quietly.
Kate could only nod. The tears she’d tried to hold back welled up. She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. The men bent to release the wheel brakes of the stand the casket rested on and lifted up the cloth that skirted it.
“Where…where will she be buried?” Kate asked.
“Mrs. Marchant is going to be cremated. We’ll be taking her back to the funeral home from here.”
“I see. Thank you,” Kate murmured, and averted her face, unable to watch Joanna Barnes wheeled out of her life forever. She closed her eyes, listening to the muted rumble of the casket as it rolled along the carpeted aisle. There was the sound of a door opening and, seconds later, thudding shut. Silence roared through the empty church.
Kate clutched the back of a pew to steady herself.
“Can I get you something?” a voice asked from behind.
She turned and looked up, making eye contact with a man who seemed to tower over her. He wasn’t smiling and his eyes were serious.
“Something?” she echoed. “Like what?”
A single eyebrow on his pale face rose at her question. “Uh, well, since this is a church…say, a glass of water?”
“Thanks, but I’m not sure you could even get a glass of water here. Everyone’s gone.”
He shook his head. “They’re all outside, being social the way people have to behave at a funeral. Maybe even talking to reporters.”
“Reporters? Here?”
“A couple, anyway. Too bad Joanna can’t talk to them herself—she’d be in her element, wouldn’t she?”
Kate stiffened at the edge in his remark. “I wouldn’t really know,” she said, and began to walk down the aisle toward the open front doors of the church. She heard him follow.
“Sorry,” he said. “That didn’t come out the way I intended. Just that, you know how Joanna loved the limelight.”
He caught up with her. “Are you a relative of hers?”
“No.” Kate kept walking.
“Then…a close friend?”
“Not really.”
As she reached the entryway, he reached out his hand to stop her. She swung around, staring down first at the hand on her forearm and then up into his face. A nice face. Nice enough to be in some of the fashion articles Joanna used to write. Maybe he had been, she thought. There was curiosity in the face, too. But the eyes—gray, she decided—were intense.
“Not really?” He repeated. Then he frowned. “You’re not a reporter, then?”
“No, for heaven’s sake. I met Joanna a long time ago. End of story.” She turned her back on him and headed for the door.
“Sorry again,” he called after her. “I’ve been trying to find someone she was close to.”
“I can’t help you there, but her husband is probably right outside.”
“He’s the last person I’d talk to.”
That stopped her. Kate pivoted around. “You’re not a relative?”
“No.”
“Friend? Colleague?”
“Hardly.” The edge returned to his voice.
The emotional fatigue of the past few days suddenly overwhelmed Kate. She was tired of this little game and only wanted to leave the church and go home. “Then I suppose neither of us has any relevant information to exchange.” Kate swung around and stepped out the church door into the glare of a July afternoon.
Lance Marchant was holding court at the foot of the steps leading up to the church. He craned his neck as Kate exited, frowning momentarily before turning his attention back to the small group of reporters interviewing him. As Kate passed, she became aware of a brief flurry of interest from the reporters, but it quickly evaporated when Joanna’s husband failed to acknowledge her.
Kate had to smile. So much for her fifteen seconds of fame, she thought. Then she remembered why she was there—and why the reporters were there. Walking briskly through the knots of people milling on the church lawn, she headed with grim determination to the rental car parked in the lot beside the church.
The day was already gearing up for more record heat. Kate was grateful for the air-conditioning that had made the drive to Westchester more tolerable. When she’d read that Joanna’s funeral would be held outside New York City, she’d decided to rent a car rather than travel by public transit. She hesitated at the entrance to the lot, scanning it for the small white Escort.
“Lost your car?”
She turned, thinking the man from the church had followed her to the parking lot. But the man a few feet to her right was another stranger. He was short, balding and red-faced from the heat. His baggy tan slacks dipped beneath a bulging stomach, and the rumpled sports jacket looked as though it had been acquired at a secondhand clothing store. His white shirt, straining at its row of buttons, clung to him in unsightly patches. He threw the cigarette he’d been smoking onto the pavement, ground it under his heel and huffed his way toward her.
Watching him made Kate feel cool. “When I got here, there weren’t so many vehicles,” she said.
He glanced behind her at the lot. “Uh-huh. And most of them limos.”
Kate suddenly noticed a sleek black limo angled in front of the Escort, blocking any quick exit she might have made. “Great,” she muttered. She pulled the material of her navy blue sleeveless dress away from her damp skin. Five more minutes in this lot, she figured, and she’d look like the man standing beside her.
“Problem?” he asked.
Kate sighed, tugging at the dress again. “My car—it’s behind that black limo in the second row.”
“Uh-oh. Hopefully the owner won’t be long. Unless he—or she—is attending the postfuneral reception in the church manse.”
Kate fanned herself with the rolled-up funeral service program. “How long will that be?”
“You’re not going?”
“No. I’m not family and…well, it wouldn’t be appropriate.” In fact, she was thinking, it would be downright awful to have to mingle with a bunch of strangers, picking up snippets of talk about Joanna.
“Not family, eh? You in the fashion trade, too, then?”
His eyes, small and deep-set in his fleshy face, swept over her.
“No, I’m a teacher,” she replied, wishing he’d go away. What was it with all the questions? she wondered.
She glanced around to see if the owner of the limo might be walking their way, but all she saw was a group of uniformed drivers standing smoking under a tree in the far corner of the lot.
“Friend of Mrs. Marchant, then?”
Kate turned her head. He was almost her height, making the top of his glistening forehead about even with her nose. His face was tilted up, allowing a brief glimpse of trickles of sweat dripping off the folds of skin beneath his chin. Kate looked away.
“Guess I’ll see if one of those drivers can move the car,” she said, moving off, hoping to put some distance between herself and the man.
But he followed. “Were you a close friend of Mrs. Marchant’s?”
The way he used her married name told Kate he wasn’t exactly Joanna’s bosom buddy, either. She stopped and turned toward him. “No, I wasn’t. Why are you asking?”
“Just curious about why you came to the funeral.”
Kate narrowed her eyes at him. “And what business is that of yours?”
He’d taken a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and was now mopping his forehead with it. “Guess I should have identified myself. Sergeant Tom Andrews, Westchester County Police.” He started to extend the arm holding the handkerchief, then apparently thought better of it.
The introduction didn’t exactly warm Kate to him. Instead, she wondered why he’d taken so long to get around to it. “And?” she prompted in her best schoolteacher voice.
He straightened at her tone, tucking away the handkerchief and digging in his jacket pocket for his badge. Kate scarcely had a glimpse of it before it was stowed away again. “Just making a few inquiries of the funeral guests, that’s all, Miss…?”
“Reilly. Kate Reilly. Is it customary for the police to attend the funeral of a suicide victim?”
He seemed to look at her with new interest. “Police like to get information on any death where there are unusual circumstances.”
A calm stillness settled over her while a tiny voice inside whispered, I knew it! I knew it! “And…what are the unusual circumstances around Joanna Barnes’s death?”
He frowned. “Sorry, I can’t get into the details. What exactly was your connection to Mrs. Marchant, or Miss Barnes?”
“I met her when I was a young girl. We haven’t seen each other in nineteen years, but she corresponded.”
“She ever talk about being depressed? Suicidal feelings?”
Kate bit down on her lower lip and shook her head. After she’d managed to regain control of her voice, she said, “No. We…uh, we weren’t close enough for her to talk about things like that.”
He kept his eyes on her, nodding his head thoughtfully. “I see. Okay. Well, thank you very much, Miss Reilly. How about if I find out which one of those guys over there belongs to the limo blocking your car? I’ve got to talk to them, anyway.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it,” Kate murmured, his question still pounding in her ears. She ever talk about being depressed? If only Joanna had written about her personal life more, rather than elaborate on information Kate had already gleaned from newspapers and magazines.
Then what, Reilly? Think your knowing her better would have prevented Joanna from killing herself? She closed her eyes. The small voice inside her was shouting yes! yes! No matter how hard she’d tried over the past few days, she couldn’t shake the thought that she might have had some influence over Joanna had she known her better.
“Sure you don’t want that glass of water?”
Kate jumped.
