"What?" Sean stopped the cart from rolling into them.
Karen tossed her ponytail. "He went in and never came out."
"Went in what?" Sean appeared stricken, his face white.
"The car wash," Jody said impatiently. "He went in the car wash, but at the other end, he just sat. Looks like he died of a heart attack.
"Are you making this up?" He smiled feebly.
"No. We were there. It was awful. Brooks Tucker found him."
"For real," he whispered.
"For real." Jody put her arm around his waist. "No one's going to think anything. Really."
"If only I hadn't put that phony obituary in the paper." He gulped.
"Yeah," the girls chimed in unison.
"Wait until my dad hears about this. He's going to kill me." He paused. "Who knows?"
"Depends on who gets to the phone first, I guess." Karen hadn't expected Sean to be this upset. She felt sorry for him.
"We came here first before going home. We thought you should know before your dad picks you up."
"Thanks," he replied, tears welling in his eyes.
22
Father Michael led the assembled upper and lower schools of St. Elizabeth's in a memorial service. Naomi Fletcher, wearing a veil, was supported by Sandy Brashiers with Florence Rubicon, the Latin teacher, on her left side. Ed Sugarman, the chemistry teacher, escorted a devastated April Shively.
Many of the younger children cried because they were supposed to or because they saw older kids crying. In the upper school some of the girls carried on, whipping through boxes of tissues. A few of the boys were red-eyed as well, including, to everyone's surprise, Sean Hallahan, captain of the football team.
Brooks reported all this to Susan, who told Harry and Miranda when they joined her at home for lunch.
"Well, he ate too much, he drank too much, and who knows what else he did—too much." Susan summed up Roscoe's life.
"How's Brooks handling it?" Harry inquired.
"Okay. She knows people die; after all, she watched her grandma die by inches with cancer. In fact, she said, 'When it's my time I want to go fast like Mr. Fletcher.'
"I don't remember thinking about dying at all at her age," Harry wondered out loud.
"You didn't think of anything much at her age," Susan replied.
"Thanks."
"Children think of death often; they are haunted by it because they can't understand it." Miranda rested her elbows on the table to lean forward. "That's why they go to horror movies—it's a safe way to approach death, scary but safe."
Harry stared at Miranda's elbows on the table. "I never thought of that."
"I know I'm not supposed to have my elbows on the table, Harry, but I can't always be perfect."
Harry blinked. "It's not that at all—it's just that you usually are—perfect."
"Aren't you sweet."
"Harry puts her feet on the table, she's so imperfect."
"Susan, I do not."
"You know what was rather odd, though?" Susan reached for the sugar bowl. "Brooks told me Jody said she was glad Roscoe was dead. That she didn't like him anyway. Now that's a bit extreme even for a teenager."
"Yeah, but Jody's been extreme lately." Harry got up when the phone rang. Force of habit.
"Sit down. I'll answer it." Susan walked over to the counter and lifted the receiver.
"Yes. Of course, I understand. Marilyn, it could have an impact on your fund-raising campaign. I do suggest that you appoint an interim headmaster immediately." Susan paused and held the phone away from her ear so the others could hear Little Mim's voice. Then she spoke again. "Sandy Brashiers. Who else? No, no, and no," she said after listening to three questions. "Do you want me to call anyone? Don't fret, doesn't solve a thing."
"She'll turn into her mother," Miranda predicted as Susan hung up the receiver.
"Little Mim doesn't have her mother's drive."
"Harry, not only do I think she has her mother's drive, I think she'll run for her father's seat once he steps down as mayor."
"No way." Harry couldn't believe the timid woman she had known since childhood could become that confident.
"Bet you five dollars," Miranda smugly said.
"According to Little Mim, the Millers are divorcing."
"Oh, dear." Miranda hated such events.
"About time." Harry didn't like hearing of divorce either, but there were exceptions. "Still, there is no such thing as a good divorce."
"You managed," Susan replied.
"How quickly you forget. During the enforced six months' separation every married couple and single woman in this town invited my ex-husband to dinner. Who had me to dinner, I ask you?"
"I did." Miranda and Susan spoke in chorus.
"And that was it. The fact that I filed for the divorce made me an ogre. He was the one having the damned affair."
"Sexism is alive and well." Susan apportioned out seven-layer salad, one of her specialties. She stopped, utensils in midair. "Did either of you like Roscoe Fletcher?"
"De mortuis nil nisi bonum," Miranda advised.
"Speak nothing but good about the dead," Harry translated although it was unnecessary. "Maybe people said that because they feared the departed spirit was nearby. If they gave you trouble while alive, think what they could do to you as a ghost."
"Did you like Roscoe Fletcher?" Susan repeated her question.
Harry paused. "Yes, he had a lot of energy and good humor."
"A little too hearty for my taste." Miranda found the salad delicious. "Did you like him?"
Susan shrugged. "I felt neutral. He seemed a bit phony sometimes. But maybe that was the fund-raiser in him. He had to be a backslapper and glad-hander, I suppose."
"Aren't we awful, sitting here picking the poor man apart?" Miranda dabbed her lipstick-coated lips with a napkin.
The phone rang again. Susan jumped up. "Speaking of letting someone rest in peace, I'd like to eat in peace."
"You don't have to answer it," Harry suggested.
"Mothers always answer telephones." She picked up the jangling device. "Hello." She paused a long time. "Thanks for telling me. You've done the right thing."
Little Mim had rung back to say St. Elizabeth's had held an emergency meeting by conference call.
Sandy Brashiers had been selected interim headmaster.
23
Late that afternoon, a tired Father Michael bent his lean frame, folding himself into the confessional.
He usually read until someone entered the other side of the booth. The residents of Crozet had been particularly virtuous this week because traffic was light.
The swish of the fabric woke him as he half dozed over the volume of Thomas Merton, a writer he usually found provocative.
"Father, forgive me for I have sinned," came the formalistic opening.
"Go on, my child."
"I have killed and I will kill again." The voice was muffled, disguised.
He snapped to attention, but before he could open his mouth, the penitent slipped out of the booth. Confused, Father Michael pondered what to do. He felt he must stay in the booth for the confessional hours were well-known—he had a responsibility to his flock—but he wanted to call Rick Shaw immediately. Paralyzed, he grasped the book so hard his knuckles were white. The curtain swished again.
A man's voice spoke, deep and low. "Father forgive me for I have sinned."
"Go on, my child," Father Michael said as his mind raced.
"I've cheated on my wife. I can't help myself. I have strong desires." He stopped.
Father Michael advised him by rote, gave him a slew of Hail Marys and novenas. He kept rubbing his wristwatch until eventually his wrist began to hurt. As the last second of his time in the booth expired, he bolted out, grabbed the phone, and dialed Rick Shaw.
When Coop picked up the phone, he insisted he speak to the sheriff himself.
"Sheriff Shaw."
"Yes."
"This is Father Michael. I don't know"—sweat beaded on his forehead; he couldn't violate what was said in the confessional booth—"I believe a murder may have taken place."