Part 10 (1/2)

Perfect, perfect, perfect.

He wrapped his creation in white wax paper, putting it on a tray that already included a can of c.o.ke, an individual-size bag of potato chips and a Snickers candy bar. It was the exact lunch his mother had packed for him every day of his childhood, or at least, every day for as long back as he could remember. The perfect lunch. Rarely a subst.i.tution. It always made him feel better, but this lunch wasn't for him. It was for his guest.

He smiled at that-his guest. He had never had a guest before. Especially not an overnight one. His mother would never allow it. And despite this being an accident, a mistake, a mess...Well, perhaps, yes, just perhaps, he liked the idea of having a guest. He liked having someone he could control for a change. At least for a little while. At least until he decided how to dispose of the parts he didn't need.

That was when he remembered. He might be able to use one of the freezers. Yes, maybe there was room for her in the freezer.

CHAPTER 32.

Luc Racine sat in the second row of folding chairs. The first row was reserved but remained empty, so Luc had a perfect view of the coffin at the front of the room. Too perfect a view. He could see the woman's makeup-caked face with cheeks too rosy. He wondered if she had ever worn lipstick that deep a shade of red. It almost made her look as if she wore a mask.

Luc pulled out the small notebook and pen from his s.h.i.+rt pocket, flipped it open and jotted down the date. Then he wrote, ”No makeup. Absolutely no makeup,” and he underlined ”absolutely.” He kept the notebook out and glanced around.

Marley stood by the door waiting for someone coming down the hallway. Perhaps it was that girl reporter. Luc had seen her in the reception area when he came in. Thank goodness she didn't recognize him, but then she probably couldn't see without her gla.s.ses.

Marley was in what Luc called his funeral director position, shoulders squared, back straight, his hands coming together below his waist, folded almost reverently as if in prayer, but his chin was up, showing an amazing amount of strength and authority. And there was the look that went with the posture.

Luc had observed Jake Marley so many times that he could catch the transition process though it happened quickly, within a blink of an eye. The man was an expert. He could go from any range of facial expressions, whether it be anger with an employee, sarcasm or even boredom, then within seconds the man could transform his entire face into an expression of complete complete compa.s.sion and sympathy. Complete, but Luc knew complete didn't necessarily mean compa.s.sion and sympathy. Complete, but Luc knew complete didn't necessarily mean genuine. genuine. In fact, he knew Jake Marley's expression wasn't genuine. It was just a part of his job, a skill honed and perfected. One necessary for his profession, like a fine craftsman's eye for detail, or in Luc's case, like a mail carrier's ability to memorize strings of numbers. But there was something about this skill of Marley's that seemed...hmm...Luc couldn't remember the word. Sometimes he had trouble remembering the right words. He scratched his jaw, trying to remember. In fact, he knew Jake Marley's expression wasn't genuine. It was just a part of his job, a skill honed and perfected. One necessary for his profession, like a fine craftsman's eye for detail, or in Luc's case, like a mail carrier's ability to memorize strings of numbers. But there was something about this skill of Marley's that seemed...hmm...Luc couldn't remember the word. Sometimes he had trouble remembering the right words. He scratched his jaw, trying to remember.

Holy c.r.a.p! He had forgotten to shave.

Then he glanced down at his feet-dad blasted! He still had his slippers on.

He looked back at Marley to see if the funeral director had noticed him. Maybe he could slip out the back. He twisted around in his seat. Shoot! This room didn't have another door. And now Marley was escorting two women in, directing them to the coffin. He gave Luc a slight nod of acknowledgment but nothing more. Marley's attention was, instead, on the two mourners, and Luc knew he didn't have to worry about Marley paying any more attention to him.

The elderly woman had artificial silver hair and big red-framed gla.s.ses that swallowed her small pigeonlike face. She leaned on her companion with every step. It was the companion who a.s.sured Luc he didn't have to worry about Marley. The woman wore a tight-fitting blue suit that accentuated her full figure in all the right places. She wore her long dark hair pulled back to reveal creamy, flawless skin.

Yes, she would have Jake Marley's full attention. She already had his hand on her lower back as he escorted them to the front of the room. Luc wondered if Marley was imagining his hand a few inches lower. Of course, he'd never slip. He was one smooth operator. Luc had observed him many times. Just as he had caught the sudden subtle face transformations, Luc had also watched Marley smooth talk and literally handle the pretty ones with a touch on the arm, the half pat, half stroke of the shoulder, the hand on the lower back. Luc had seen all of Marley's moves.

Maybe the women found it comforting, Luc told himself. Marley wasn't obnoxious about it. He wasn't a bad-looking guy, either. Sort of plain, but put him in one of his five hundred dollar black suits and the guy seemed to ooze strength, comfort and yes, authority. And women seemed to love guys with authority, especially when they were at their most vulnerable.

Luc watched the two women now at the casket, gazing at their loved one, whispering to each other as if not to wake her.

”Her hair looks beautiful,” the older woman said, then added, ”She wouldn't have worn that color of lipstick.”

Luc smiled. See, he knew it wasn't her shade. He flipped his notebook open again and jotted down, ”No whispering. Make people talk in normal tones.”

The young woman glanced back at Luc and smiled. Her eyes were puffy, though she wasn't crying anymore. He smiled back and gave her a nod. In his notebook he wrote, ”No crying allowed. And maybe some cheerful music. None of this...this funeral home music.”

He tried to remember what kind of music he liked and drew a blank. Surely he could remember a particular song or maybe a singer. How could he not remember music?

Just then he noticed the two women whispering again, only this time the older woman was looking back over her shoulder at him as the young woman said something to Marley. There were talking about him. Wondering who he was. Why they didn't recognize him.

Time to leave.

He got up and took his time shuffling through the long second row of chairs. By the time he got to the door he heard one of them say something about bedroom slippers and realized that yes, they were talking about him.

Luc made it to the end of the hallway, out the door and down the street. Still no Marley. Of course, he wouldn't leave that beautiful brunette. So Luc took a moment to catch his breath and scratch in his notebook, ”Bedroom slippers. Bury me in my bedroom slippers. The blue ones, not the brown ones.”

He flipped the notebook closed and put it and the pen in his pocket. In the reflection of the store window he saw a man watching him from behind, from across the street. Was it Marley? He didn't want to turn around to look. Didn't want the man to know. He stood still, pretending to look at the knickknacks in the store that used to be Ralph's Butcher Shop. He looked between the hanging wind chimes and colorful wind socks, the same area where the rows of salami used to hang. He looked for the man's reflection and couldn't see it. Luc stole a quick glance over his shoulder. The man was gone.

Luc stared at his feet, at the slippers that he couldn't remember putting on that morning. Had there even been a man following him? Or was he really just imagining things?

CHAPTER 33.

Maggie moved her room service tray aside, s.n.a.t.c.hing one last piece of toast. She glanced at her watch. She had plenty she needed to do today, places to go, people to talk to. Adam Bonzado had tracked her down first thing this morning, inviting her to his lab at the university to take a look at one of the victims. He seemed under the impression that she was officially on this case. Maybe Sheriff Watermeier had even told him so. She wasn't sure why she was considering it. Most likely it wouldn't help her find Joan Begley. Except that his lab was at the University of New Haven, the same university where Patrick was.

She glanced at her watch again and dug out her cell phone. She had been putting this off long enough. She punched in the number from memory.

Gwen answered on the second ring as if she was expecting the call.

”It's not her,” Maggie said without stalling, then waited out her friend's silence, letting it sink in.

”Thank G.o.d!”

”But she is missing,” Maggie said, not wanting Gwen to misunderstand. She shoved aside a file she had thrown on the hotel desk. She opened it, but only to retrieve a photo. A photo of Joan Begley that Gwen had given her last week.

”Tell me,” Gwen said. ”Tell me whatever you've found out.”

”I was in her hotel room last night.”

”They let you in?”

”Let's just say I was in her hotel room last night, okay?” She didn't have the patience this morning for a lecture from her friend, the same friend who had managed to finagle someone into telling her Joan Begley had missed her flight. ”It looks like she's been gone since Sat.u.r.day. But I don't think she just left. Her things are scattered around the room like she intended to come back.”

”Is it possible he may have talked her into running off without her things?”

”I don't know. All her cosmetics? And her checkbook? You tell me, Gwen. Is she the type who would do that?”

There was silence again and Maggie used it to examine the photo. The photographer had interrupted Joan Begley, making her look up from a metal sculpture, her welding hood's protective gla.s.s mask pushed up, revealing serious brown eyes and porcelain-white skin. In the background were framed prints, bright splashes of red and orange and royal blue, beautiful explosions of colors with black streaks and slashes through the middle. And in the reflection of the gla.s.s, Maggie could almost make out another image. Sort of ironic. A portrait of the artist with a self-portrait of the photographer.

”No,” Gwen Patterson finally answered. ”She's not the type who would run off and leave her things. No, I don't think she would do that.”

”I'm going to need your help, Gwen.” She hesitated again, making sure she had her friend's attention. ”Now's not the time to be holding back any client-patient confidentiality.”

”No, of course not. No, I wouldn't do that. Not if it was something that might help find her.”

”You said you had an e-mail from her that mentioned this man she may have been meeting. You said she called him Sonny, right?”