Angela had given her greatest rival the success she'd hoped to take away. She'd only had to die to do it.
"Deanna?"
Her heart flew to her throat, her eyes sprang open. On the other side of her desk, Simon jumped as violently as she. "Sorry," he said quickly. "I guess you didn't hear me knock."
"That's okay." Disgusted with her reaction, she chuckled weakly. "My nerves don't seem to be as strong as I thought. You look exhausted."
He tried to smile, but couldn't bring it off. "Having trouble sleeping." He tumbled out a cigarette.
"I thought you'd quit."
"Me too." Embarrassed, he moved his shoulders. "I know you said you wanted to start taping on Monday."
"That's right. Is there a problem?" "It's just that…" He trailed off, puffing hard on the cigarette. "I thought, under the circumstances — but maybe it doesn't matter to you. It just seemed to me…"
Deanna wondered if she grabbed onto his tongue and pulled, if the words would spill out. "What?"
"The set," he blurted out, and passed a nervous hand over his thinning hair. "I thought you might want to change the set. The chairs… you know."
"Oh God." She pressed a fist to her mouth as the vision of Angela, sitting cozily, sitting dead in the spacious white chair, flashed into her mind. "Oh God, I haven't thought."
"I'm sorry, Deanna." For lack of something better he patted her shoulder. "I shouldn't have said anything. I'm an idiot."
"No. No. Thank God you did. I don't think I could have handled…" She imagined herself striding out on the set, then freezing in shock and horror. Would she have run screaming, as she had done before? "Oh, Simon. Oh, sweet Jesus."
"Dee." Helplessly he patted her shoulder again. "I didn't mean to upset you."
"I think you just saved my sanity. Put the set decorator on it, Simon, please? Have him change everything. The color scheme, the chairs, tables, the plants. Everything. Tell him—"
Simon had already taken out a notebook to scribble down her instructions. The simple, habitual gesture somehow cheered Deanna.
"Thanks, Simon."
"I'm the detail man, remember?" He tapped out the half-smoked cigarette. "Don't worry about it. We'll have a whole new look."
"But keep it comfortable. And why don't you knock off early? Go get yourself a massage."
"I'd rather work."
"I know what you mean."
"I didn't know it would affect me like this." He tucked the pad away. "I worked with her for years. I can't say I liked her much, but I knew her. I stood right here, in this spot, when she was sitting there." He glanced up again, meeting Deanna's eyes. "Now, she's dead. I can't stop thinking about it."
"Neither can I."
"Whoever did it was in here, too." Warily, he scanned the room, as if he expected someone to lunge out of a corner wielding a gun. "Jesus, I'm sorry. All I'm doing is scaring the shit out of both of us. I guess it's eating on me because her memorial service is tonight."
"Tonight? In New York?"
"No, here. I guess she wanted to be buried in Chicago, where she got her big break. There's not going to be a viewing or anything, because…" He remembered why and swallowed hard. "Well, there's just going to be a service at the funeral parlor. I think I should go."
"Give the details to Cassie, will you? I think I should go, too."
"This isn't just stupid," Finn said with barely controlled fury. "It's insane."
Deanna watched the windshield wipers sweep at the ugly, icy sleet. The snow that had fallen throughout the day had turned to oily gray slop against the curbs. The sleet that replaced it battered down, cold and mean.
It was a good night for a funeral. Her chin came up and her jaw tightened. "I told you that you didn't have to come with me."
"Yeah, right." He spotted the crowd of reporters huddled outside the funeral parlor and drove straight down the block. "Goddamn press."
She nearly smiled at that, felt a giddy urge to laugh out loud. But she was afraid it would sound hysterical. "I won't mention anything about pots and kettles."
"I'm going to park down the block," he said between his teeth. "We'll see if we can find a side or a back entrance."
"I'm sorry," she repeated when he'd parked. "Sorry to have dragged you out to this tonight." She had a headache she didn't dare mention. And a raw sick feeling in her stomach that promised to worsen.
"I don't recall being dragged."
"I knew you wouldn't let me come alone. So it amounts to the same thing. I can't even explain to myself why I feel I have to do this. But I have to do it."
Suddenly, she twisted toward him, gripping his hand hard. "Whoever killed her could be in there. I keep wondering if I'll know him. If I look him in the face, if I'll know. I'm terrified I will."
"But you still want to go inside."
"I have to."
The sleet helped, she thought. Not only was it cold, but it demanded the use of long, disguising coats and shielding umbrellas. They walked in silence, against the wind. She caught sight of the CBC van before Finn ducked around the side of the building. He hustled her inside, drenching them both as he snapped the umbrella closed.
"I hate goddamned funerals." Surprised, she studied his face as she tugged off her gloves, shed her coat. She could see it now. More than annoyance with her for insisting on attending, more than concern or even fear, there was dread in his eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize."
"I haven't been to one since… in years. What's the point? Dead's dead. Flowers and organ music don't change it."
"It's supposed to comfort the living." "Not so I've noticed."
"We won't stay long." She took his hand, surprised that it would be he rather than she who needed comfort.
He seemed to shudder, once. "Let's get it over with."
They walked out of the alcove. They could already hear the murmur of voices, the muted notes of a dirge. Not organ music, he realized, horribly relieved, but piano and cello in somber duet. The air smelled of lemon oil, perfume, flowers. He would have sworn he smelled whiskey as well, sharp as a blade cutting through the overly sweetened air.
The thick carpet was a riot of deep red roses and muffled their footsteps as they walked down a wide hall. On both sides heavy oak doors were discreetly shut. At the end they were flung open. Cigarette smoke added to the miasma of scent.
When he felt her tremble, Finn tucked his arm more firmly around her waist. "We can turn around and leave, Deanna. There's no shame in it."
She only shook her head. Then she saw the first video camera. The press, it seemed, wasn't merely huddled outside. Several had been allowed in, complete with camera crews, microphones and lights. Cables were strewn over the garden of carpet in the main viewing room.
In silence, they slipped inside.
The cathedral ceiling with its painted mural of cherubim and seraphim tossed the murmuring voices and chinking glasses everywhere.
The room was crowded with people. As Deanna looked from face to face, she wondered if she would see grief or fear or simply resignation. Would Angela feel she was being mourned properly? And would her killer be here, to observe?
No one wept, Finn noted. He did see shock and sober eyes. Voices were muted respectfully. And the cameras recorded it all. Would they, he wondered, inadvertently record one face, one that couldn't quite hide the knowledge, and the triumph? He kept Deanna close to his side, knowing that the murderer could be in the room, watching.
There was a photograph of Angela in a gold frame. The flattering publicity shot sat atop a gleaming mahogany coffin.
It reminded Finn, much too vividly, of what lay inside the discreetly closed lid. Feeling Deanna shudder beside him, he instinctively drew her closer.