All Fixed Up by Linda Grimes Page B

everyone when Uncle Foster handed his prized possession to my brother Brian, the musician in our family, who started playing “In a Sentimental Mood,” Aunt Helen’s favorite. Uncle Foster closed his eyes, holding on to my father and mother for support, an achingly sad smile on his face as he swayed, ever so slightly, to the melody. I buried my face in Billy’s shoulder (yeah, that suit jacket was going to need a trip to the dry cleaners) and momentarily lost myself in memories of the sweet old lady who’d snuck me candy and told me scandalous stories about her days entertaining the soldiers as a USO volunteer.
    My snuffling was interrupted by an extra hand on my shoulder. Mark.
    â€œTo your left, Howdy,” he said, barely moving his lips. “Recognize anyone?”
    I glanced. A man appeared to be photographing us from twenty or thirty yards away, documenting our grief for whatever reason. “Maybe he works for Woodlawn?” I looked again, more closely, after blinking away excess tears. This time the camera was away from the man’s face. “Wait a second—that’s Alec Loughlin. What’s he doing here?”
    â€œGood question,” Mark said quietly.
    What the hell? I thought. Mark stepped away before I could voice it. He must have signaled his men somehow, because they closed ranks—quietly, casually—around our small group. Mark walked toward Loughlin, also not rushing. Unfortunately there was no way he could sneak up on the man. Instead, he gave a friendly wave. When the man bolted, so did Billy, joining Mark in the chase.
    Mark and Billy were fast, but the man had a vehicle idling close by, and was in it, tearing out, before they could reach him. Traveling much faster than the fifteen-mile-per-hour speed limit, too, the asshole.
    *   *   *
    â€œAre you sure it was Alec Loughlin?” Mark said. “I’ve only seen pictures of the man, but you’ve met him in person.”
    We were in my parents’ study, along with Billy, taking a brief break from the gaiety in the dining room, where all the in-town Halligans and Doyles were gathered to toast Thomas and Laura’s good news. Perhaps it wasn’t in the best of taste to hold such a celebration on the evening of Aunt Helen’s funeral, but Mom had pointed out Aunt Helen would have been the first to insist on it. She’d always made such a fuss about each and every new Halligan baby, and would have been thrilled at the news of the newest generation.
    Uncle Foster was settled back at the exclusive senior living community next to Central Park where he and Aunt Helen had lived for the last ten years. As a new widower, he would be well looked after by a few dozen widows who also resided there, God help him.
    I thought hard about Mark’s question, struggling to see the man’s face in my mind. “I was sure. At the cemetery. When I saw him,” I said. “There was something about his stance, about the way he held his camera—it reminded me of the news conference. But, no, I suppose he was too far away for me to be a hundred percent certain. Say, ninety-eight percent?”
    Mark had shown Billy and me pictures of the real Alec Loughlin on his cell phone. It was definitely the same guy who’d been on the Vomit Comet with me. Or his twin, I supposed, but Mark probably would have mentioned if he’d had one.
    Billy’s usually playful eyes were serious. “It makes sense Loughlin was hired by NASA to document Dr. Carson’s announcement. He knows her—there’s a connection. But how could he know Ciel wasn’t the real Dr. Carson? Sure, he might wonder why she was ignoring their previous romantic relationship”—I’d already explained how she had neglected to include that little tidbit in her questionnaire—“but that shouldn’t be enough to make him think it wasn’t her. And, if it was Loughlin at the