hell with our fathers.”
CHAPTER 4
C harley Barrett’s closed casket sat against a marble wall surrounded by banked floral arrangements. Mariah vaguely remembered the mortuary, a venerable city tradition, as the place family and friends had paid their respects upon her mother’s death. Her father did not speak of Catharine, but looked around the viewing room with its green damask drapes as if it were familiar.
Around Charley’s casket stood a clutch of men wearing dark suits and women in black. Some approached to study the bronze box while others did not, but everyone conversed in hushed tones. Beneath a translucent alabaster fixture, Tom Barrett stood slumped in a wrinkled pinstripe, his usually clear blue eyes red-rimmed. Though clean-shaven, a rash of bumps said he’d made a mess of it.
Mariah’s father moved toward the taller man, and they clasped hands. “God, Tom. Your boy …”
“John. Of all the rotten luck …” Tom trailed off, taking his old friend into a bear hug while the rest of the mourners pretended not to notice two men sobbing out loud. When they broke apart, both Tom and John wiped unabashedly at tears.
Tom hugged Mariah in turn, lifting her cleanly from the floor. Her ribs compressed, and her breath came out in a rush before he set her down.
With a thick finger, he touched the framed photo atop the casket. The camera had caught Charley laughing, his arm around the neck of his Golden Retriever, Luke. Sunlight glinted on the dog’s smooth coat and on the young man’s bright hair.
“I’m sorry it had to be Charley,” Mariah said. It must have occurred to Tom that if she and Cassie had taken the hoist first, his son would be alive. “Such an unfair twist of fate.”
“Fate?” With a glance around, Tom bent to her. “That may not have been an accident.” His words were soft, yet struck with force.
“Who’d want to hurt Charley? Or one of our glaziers?”
“It was almost you on that elevator.”
Mariah’s stomach churned.
“Promise you won’t gamble with your safety,” Tom insisted.
Surely, he didn’t think there had been foul play. He must be grasping at straws, a father’s attempt to avoid admitting the senseless nature of the accident. The single detective assigned to the case viewed the matter as an equipment failure, as did she.
Turning away from Tom, she saw her own father’s concerned face and realized he’d overheard. “I promise I’ll be careful,” she said to mollify both him and Tom.
Wendy Barrett, a bird-like woman who moved in fits and starts, came and hugged Mariah. She returned the embrace, shocked by the older woman’s pallor. Usually fit and healthy from daily tennis, Wendy seemed to have shrunk by inches.
It made Mariah ache inside. Charley’s mother had watched out for him and her when they were preschoolers. As they grew older, she’d chaperoned after school hours, driving them to club meetings and ball games. One of the fondest memories was of a crisp fall day when Wendy called her and Charley to the back porch with a plate of homemade caramel apples.
“I’m so sorry that you were there … that you had to see …” Wendy glanced toward the closed casket.
Mariah was trying to forget the bloody flesh, the protruding bones, telling herself it had nothing to do with Charley.
Wendy pulled a wad of tissues from her jacket pocket and offered one. Mariah took it and dabbed at her eyes.
In the midst of blowing her shiny nose, Wendy suddenly straightened. “Oh, no.”
Mariah followed her gaze to the viewing room door.
Beneath a recessed spotlight, Davis Campbell and his wife made their entrance. The owner of DCI bore an emotionless expression on his hawklike features, his mourning suit somehow blacker than every other man’s. Though Kiki’s dress matched her husband’s somber suit, her red hair made a beacon.
Wendy flushed and fiddled with her crying rag. “Why did they have to come?”
Mariah touched her arm. “It’s what
CHAPTER 4
C harley Barrett’s closed casket sat against a marble wall surrounded by banked floral arrangements. Mariah vaguely remembered the mortuary, a venerable city tradition, as the place family and friends had paid their respects upon her mother’s death. Her father did not speak of Catharine, but looked around the viewing room with its green damask drapes as if it were familiar.
Around Charley’s casket stood a clutch of men wearing dark suits and women in black. Some approached to study the bronze box while others did not, but everyone conversed in hushed tones. Beneath a translucent alabaster fixture, Tom Barrett stood slumped in a wrinkled pinstripe, his usually clear blue eyes red-rimmed. Though clean-shaven, a rash of bumps said he’d made a mess of it.
Mariah’s father moved toward the taller man, and they clasped hands. “God, Tom. Your boy …”
“John. Of all the rotten luck …” Tom trailed off, taking his old friend into a bear hug while the rest of the mourners pretended not to notice two men sobbing out loud. When they broke apart, both Tom and John wiped unabashedly at tears.
Tom hugged Mariah in turn, lifting her cleanly from the floor. Her ribs compressed, and her breath came out in a rush before he set her down.
With a thick finger, he touched the framed photo atop the casket. The camera had caught Charley laughing, his arm around the neck of his Golden Retriever, Luke. Sunlight glinted on the dog’s smooth coat and on the young man’s bright hair.
“I’m sorry it had to be Charley,” Mariah said. It must have occurred to Tom that if she and Cassie had taken the hoist first, his son would be alive. “Such an unfair twist of fate.”
“Fate?” With a glance around, Tom bent to her. “That may not have been an accident.” His words were soft, yet struck with force.
“Who’d want to hurt Charley? Or one of our glaziers?”
“It was almost you on that elevator.”
Mariah’s stomach churned.
“Promise you won’t gamble with your safety,” Tom insisted.
Surely, he didn’t think there had been foul play. He must be grasping at straws, a father’s attempt to avoid admitting the senseless nature of the accident. The single detective assigned to the case viewed the matter as an equipment failure, as did she.
Turning away from Tom, she saw her own father’s concerned face and realized he’d overheard. “I promise I’ll be careful,” she said to mollify both him and Tom.
Wendy Barrett, a bird-like woman who moved in fits and starts, came and hugged Mariah. She returned the embrace, shocked by the older woman’s pallor. Usually fit and healthy from daily tennis, Wendy seemed to have shrunk by inches.
It made Mariah ache inside. Charley’s mother had watched out for him and her when they were preschoolers. As they grew older, she’d chaperoned after school hours, driving them to club meetings and ball games. One of the fondest memories was of a crisp fall day when Wendy called her and Charley to the back porch with a plate of homemade caramel apples.
“I’m so sorry that you were there … that you had to see …” Wendy glanced toward the closed casket.
Mariah was trying to forget the bloody flesh, the protruding bones, telling herself it had nothing to do with Charley.
Wendy pulled a wad of tissues from her jacket pocket and offered one. Mariah took it and dabbed at her eyes.
In the midst of blowing her shiny nose, Wendy suddenly straightened. “Oh, no.”
Mariah followed her gaze to the viewing room door.
Beneath a recessed spotlight, Davis Campbell and his wife made their entrance. The owner of DCI bore an emotionless expression on his hawklike features, his mourning suit somehow blacker than every other man’s. Though Kiki’s dress matched her husband’s somber suit, her red hair made a beacon.
Wendy flushed and fiddled with her crying rag. “Why did they have to come?”
Mariah touched her arm. “It’s what
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