All the Dark Places(33)

Mrs. Bradley sits in the front pew with her sister, brother-in-law, and parents. She’s a thin figure in a black dress and long dark coat, her hair tied back in a ponytail. The casket rests up front and is covered with an impressive spray of white flowers. The priest and his attendants are busy, and the organ, upstairs and behind us, roars to life with heart-pounding resonance. The congregation stands. It’s a big crowd. Dr. Bradley was a popular man.

The priest’s deep voice echoes through the church as my eyes search the people standing before him. The Bradleys’ friends, the ones we’ve interviewed, are all accounted for. I try to figure out who the others might be. It’s just a guessing game, of course, but one that could, possibly, provide a smidgeon of insight into what appears to be a totally senseless murder.

When the service is over, the family leads the exiting mourners up the center aisle. Mrs. Bradley catches my eye, but her sister hurries her away. Chase and I remain in our seats, allowing us to observe the faces of the people leaving the church.

Once the place is empty, save the priest’s attendants working up front, Chase turns to me. “You notice anything interesting?”

“No. You?”

He shakes his head.

I’m reluctant to leave and wander slowly down a side aisle past tapestries that hang between the stained-glass windows. They depict the twelve stations of the cross. While St. Mary’s is a beautiful church, I remember the comfort of our parish church in our old neighborhood. It was where my siblings and I had our First Communions. Where my two oldest sisters got married and where my brother Ricky’s funeral was held. I was just a kid when Ricky was killed in Vietnam. The memory sweeps over me and fills me with an aching sadness. It was an early lesson in the unfairness of life. To my child’s mind, it was inconceivable that the big, strong brother who used to carry me piggyback was never coming home again. For months, I listened for the front door, for his booming voice in the hall.

I still have the last letter he wrote me from Vietnam. He was already dead by the time it arrived, so Ma grabbed it from the stack of mail. She kept it tucked in the pocket of an old cardigan she wore. Even though it was addressed to me, Ma kept it with her until she died. She’d sit at the kitchen table, drink her tea, and slip her hand into her pocket periodically and run her fingers over the envelope. It was the one thing I wanted when Ma died. My sister Maureen, the oldest girl in the family and by far the bossiest, was in charge of doling out Ma’s few possessions. Maureen made a stink about it until Danny and I cornered her in Ma’s kitchen and she handed it over. Maureen never liked the fact that I was the youngest and, in her eyes, a spoiled brat, but Ricky had sent the letter to me, and as Danny told her, Ma would have wanted me to have it.

I sigh, shake my head.

“Want to head back, Rita?” Chase says.

“What? Yeah, in a minute. You think the perp was coming back for that necklace?”

“Could be. Dr. Bradley hid it, and recently, for a reason.”

I sigh. “Who knows? But we need something to pop.” I stand still by the altar. The scent of flowers is sweet and pungent. “Let’s go. See if Lauren’s got anything.”





CHAPTER 22


Molly


THERE’S SOMETHING STRANGE ABOUT THE GATHERING AT MY HOUSE after the funeral. It’s almost like Jay’s birthday party, but everyone is wearing black. And my sister and parents are here, along with other family members. A carful from back home made the trip across Massachusetts.

But our little group, the ones who were here a week ago to celebrate with Jay, are clustered at the kitchen table with drinks and plates of food. Corrine organized it all, the food ordered from some fancy shop in Boston. Rich is manning the drinks, and he catches me coming down the hall.

“Aunt Ellen asked for a glass of white wine, Molly.”

“Um. Sure. In the cellar.”

He stands still for a moment. He’s rarely at my house and isn’t familiar with its layout. “I’ll show you.” He follows me to the door, where I stand on tiptoe and slide the lock open. He gives me a quizzical look, but I’m not going there. Not today, not with him. “Downstairs. Turn right. You’ll see the racks. There’s a light switch to the left.” I walk briskly away and into the kitchen, which is full of conversations mingling together in a subdued cacophony.

“Hayes said you went back to work yesterday,” Laken says.

“Yes. It felt good to be out of the house. Doing something normal.”

“Good for you,” Laken replies. “You need to keep busy.”

“Speaking of busy,” I say, “some kids broke one of the attic windows at the mountain house. Jay went up a couple weeks ago to check on it, and he ordered the window from Mr. Barton. He called me and said it was in. I guess I’ll need to go up there.” Although I’d rather not, especially by myself.

Scott, who’s been leaning against the kitchen door frame, holding a bottle of beer, straightens. “I can put it in for you, Molly. There’s no need for you to worry about it.”

“I appreciate that.”

Kim takes a deep breath. “It seems like a lifetime ago that we were all there.”

I half smile. Jay and I’d hosted our friends for a big Fourth of July week and my birthday celebration rolled into one.

“I can give you a hand, Scott,” Cal says.