Last to Know: A Novel(61)
Rossetti was with him and the two detectives eyed the mourners carefully for “strangers,” meaning anyone not obviously family or friends or in some way affiliated. It was a shock to recognize Bea, dressed head to toe in black, standing in front with the family. A black scarf was wrapped over her blond hair and she wore rose-tinted glasses that hid her eyes.
Rossetti said in Harry’s ear, “I thought she said she didn’t know Jemima.”
“The only connection Bea had to Jemima, according to her, was when she was arrested on suspicion of her murder.”
“Which Mike Leverage got her off faster than it took to spin a roulette wheel. So, why is she here?”
“Let’s ask her,” Harry said.
They stood respectfully to one side as the coffin, borne by Jemima’s father and several strong young cousins and friends, was placed at the side of the rain-soaked gap in the earth that was to be her final resting place. The priest intoned a blessing while Harry kept his eyes on Bea, who simply stood, as though transfixed, gazing through her rose-colored glasses as the young woman she claimed never to have known was buried. Only then did she look up at the detectives observing her. She walked over to them immediately and stood, her head wrapped in the black scarf, searching Harry’s eyes.
“You are wondering, of course, what I’m doing here when I didn’t even know her,” she said very quietly. “You might have forgotten, Detectives, that I was questioned about this girl’s murder. When you did that you involved me in her spirit.” She shrugged. “Whatever that is. Anyhow, I couldn’t let it just be, I had to come, I wanted to know who had done this to her. I don’t quite understand why I thought I would find the answer here, all I can tell you is I have not.” She shrugged a slender, black-clothed shoulder again. “I’m hoping you have.”
And with that she stalked away, her black ballet flats squishing through the mud. She reached the gravel path and strode off, like, Harry thought watching her, an awkward long-legged heron about to take flight.
“Y’know what?” Rossetti sank his chin into the collar of his Burberry, which in his estimation had gotten far too wet for a really good trench coat. “That young woman is f*ckin’ crazy.”
Harry was watching as Bea stopped at a long black limo pulled to the side of the road. A uniformed chauffeur got quickly out and held the door for her. She disappeared inside, the door slammed, the chauffeur got back in and edged into the traffic.
“Y’know what,” Harry repeated thoughtfully to Rossetti. “You might be right. Only now she’s rich and crazy.”
They thought it best not to intrude on the family and drove back in Rossetti’s car to the precinct.
46
Rose was alone in her bedroom, curled up on the love seat by the window, a glass of wine in one hand and the TV clicker in the other. She stopped when she got to the news channel which was showing the funeral of the “murdered young woman,” as Jemima Forester had now become known. As if, Rose thought sadly, she had lost her identity along with her life. On the newscast the rain was coming down in sheets, as it was outside her own window, obscuring any view of the lake and leaving the porch awash like the deck of a ship in a storm.
On TV, somberly clad mourners were shown filing into the church, then standing by the grave to which the coffin, awash in wet flowers, was borne by sturdy-looking young men who did not flinch from their task, nor from the terrible weather. Rose’s heart went out to them, to the parents following their daughter to her final resting place, eyes cast down, putting one slow foot in front of the other. In the quick intrusive shot of the mourners standing by the hollowed-out grave, she caught sight of Harry Jordan in the back, with Detective Rossetti. Both men were bare-headed out of respect, despite the torrential downpour. With rain streaming down his face, Rose thought for a minute Harry looked as if he were crying. Then she remembered that he had known the dead girl and thought perhaps he really was crying. Harry, as she had found out, was a man with a heart under his tough cop exterior.
She sat up, shocked, though, slopping wine onto the sofa, when she spotted Bea among the mourners. She wondered if it could really be her. Surely not. But yes, she would recognize those long skinny legs anywhere, now in black tights with black flats, and that slender body now encased in a sober black coat, even though her blond hair was covered by a scarf and she was wearing tinted glasses.
Rose thought the coat looked expensive, then remembered Harry saying Bea would inherit her mother’s money, as well as the house, the burned-down one in which the mother had died, and on which no doubt Bea had claimed the insurance.
Remembering the horror of the night Jemima had been murdered right out there at the lake, and Wally and Bea being arrested, Rose wished she had the magic ability to erase time, to remove herself, remove all her family, return to the place they had been before Bea Havnel came into their lives.
She had a guilty feeling of responsibility. Even though, after she had “come to her senses” and told Bea to stay out of the Osbornes’ lives, it was she who had at first accepted her, who had become like a mother to her, without questioning what Bea might really want. Now it came to Rose like a revelation, an epiphany almost, exactly what Bea had wanted. She had wanted to be her. To be the woman who had it all: the husband, the family, the position in life, the house on the lake filled with friends. Rose understood Bea’s envy, but not her jealousy. It was too crazy.