Finally he looked straight at me. I took that as a sign not that I was a suspect, but that it was okay to go up and speak to him.
“I hope I’m not blowing your cover by speaking to you,” I said, glancing around to be sure no one was near enough to hear me.
“You’re actually giving me cover.” He gave me a headto-heels look, and I was glad I’d worn a black dress by a British designer with long sleeves and a jewel neckline. Just to be clear, it was the black dress that had the long sleeves and jewel neckline, not the British designer. It was flattering and still didn’t shout “Look at me!” when the attention should rightfully be on the deceased. If I were somewhere besides a funeral and had two good ankles, I would have worn a pair of chunky heels and a leather jacket with it. Jack’s gaze finally landed on my Paul Mayer black-lace ballet flats.
“Nice shoes,” he said. Trust Jack to appreciate fine quality and styling.
“I can’t wear anything with heels yet because of my accident. Thanks for noticing.”
“I notice everything. It’s my job.”
“Then you already noticed the place is full of suspects. That’s why you’re here.”
He didn’t say anything. That was how I knew I was right. When I wasn’t, he let me know. When the music started, it was a sign for everyone to take a seat. I went to the back row and looked around to see whether someone was actually playing the Chopin Piano Sonata or it was a recording. Jack came and sat next to me. I didn’t see a piano, and I didn’t see Dolce. Maybe she was sitting up in front with her friend.
Following the Chopin was the funeral march theme from Beethoven’s Third Symphony. I must have looked surprised because Jack turned and whispered in my ear, “What’s wrong? MarySue didn’t like Beethoven?”
I shrugged. How would I know? But ask me about her taste in shoes and I could write a book. “What would you choose?” I asked under my breath.
“Some Dixieland jazz would be nice. And a parade through the streets.”
I smiled at the image in my mind. Detective Jack Wall’s coffin being carried through the streets of his beat by his parolees, with gangsters, pimps and drug addicts standing on the curb cheering or weeping as he passed by.
“ ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’ . . . ‘Didn’t He Ramble’ . . . ‘Down By the Riverside’ . . . You mean like those?”
He nodded. The recorded music continued. Mourners continued to file in.
“What about you?” Jack asked.
“I’ve always liked Barber’s Adagio for Strings,” I said, my eyes following the women who walked past in their little black dresses and the men in their dark suits. It was too bad someone didn’t show some imagination. I didn’t, but I didn’t want to stand out. MarySue sure wanted to stand out. Had she had a premonition of her upcoming demise and ordered a jacket for this very occasion? Not likely.
“I think for me I’d choose something more upbeat,” I said.
“What, like a barbershop quartet singing ‘My Wild Irish Rose’?” he asked.
I pictured straw hats and bow ties, and I knew that wasn’t really me. “I’m not Irish. So no quartet. I don’t know. I just don’t want my funeral to be a downer.”
“Since you’re planning ahead, you probably know what you’d wear,” he said.
“To my funeral? Hmmm. Not really. I’ve never thought about it before.”
“Neither did MarySue,” he said soberly.
I nodded. She sure didn’t. “Well, I might want to wear something different. Black is so obvious. What if I wore something sparkly, just to give everyone a lift? Put a smile on their faces? I’d want them to say, ‘Isn’t that just like Rita to wear sequins to her own funeral?’ I’d want some festive earrings and a bracelet too. I’m actually more worried about drawing a crowd. I’m not MarySue. I’m new in town. What if no one comes?”
A woman sitting in front of us turned around to stare at the latecomers straggling in. “I know one thing,” I said softly. “You won’t have to worry about attendance at your funeral. Cops always make a big deal when one of their own dies. Or is that only in the line of duty?”
He shrugged as if he didn’t know.
“For a cop like you there will be a motorcycle parade, bagpipes playing taps, the whole thing,” I said. “You don’t get a choice.”
“Maybe I’ll die in my sleep, and I can skip the parade of escorts and the flyby,” he said. “But I do want the jazz music.”
“Live band?”
“Yeah, definitely. Saint Gabriel’s Celestial Brass Band if they’re not busy.” He paused and squinted. “Who’s the guy in the black sneakers and silk T-shirt?”
I didn’t even need to look. “Peter Butinski.”
“Why is he leaning over the coffin? Looks like he’s crying.”
“He’s our shoe supplier.”
“I’d like to have a talk with him.”
“He’ll freak out.”
“I’m used to that.”
“Don’t tell me. It’s part of your job.”
“You know too much about me,” he said wryly.
“One thing I know for sure. The guy is guilty of stealing our Vogue magazine and I want it back.”
Finally the music stopped. A man in a nondenominational clerical collar stood and welcomed us. He gave a brief history of MarySue’s life, her family, her background and her accomplishments, like being president of her neighborhood garden club. How fitting that she was killed in a park, I thought. Or was “ironic” the word I was looking for?
Next Jim stood and read a poem called “Life is Not a Destination, It’s a Stopping Place on the Way to Heaven.” I wasn’t sure if he’d written it himself, but I hoped the sentiment was comforting to him and everyone else who missed MarySue. When he finished, he looked straight at me as if to dare me to accost him or deny that MarySue was in heaven. I didn’t. I hoped I’d never see him again after today. Why should I? Unless he came by to pay for MarySue’s shoes.
The next speaker said she was MarySue’s sister, and she did bear a resemblance to our former customer. Being around the same size as her sister, maybe she’d inherit MarySue’s wardrobe. I hoped all those expensive clothes would get some use. Although I would have liked to see the homeless shelter get a donation of designer wear. Her sister read a poem called “Play Jolly Music at My Funeral.” The poet wanted Dixieland music played—songs by Scott Joplin and Fats Waller.
I nudged Jack with my elbow and he nodded. He wasn’t the only one who wanted happy music at his funeral. But did MarySue? I couldn’t believe she really expected to die at such a young age. Was she thirty-five, forty? I didn’t know and no one said.
For some reason the idea of playing happy music at a sad occasion made people tear up. Not me of course, but I could hear women sniffling and men blowing their noses into their monogrammed handkerchiefs. The final speaker was Harlan, MarySue’s brother and Patti’s husband who rambled on about their idyllic childhood in the upscale East Bay town of Piedmont where the siblings spent happy summers taking golf and tennis lessons at their country club. When the cleric or emcee or whoever he was took over the microphone again, I assumed the ceremony was almost over. Well, the ceremony might have been over, but the excitement wasn’t. Just then, the double doors behind us opened and a gust of wind blew through the room. I turned to see who had arrived so late he’d almost missed the funeral. It was a man in a fur hat and an orange robe holding a small brass bell in his hand. A hush fell over the room. Every eye was on the stranger. Some were thinking, isn’t it too early in the season for fur? Others may have been wondering how he was connected to the Jensen family? Someone Jim knew through the airline he worked for? MarySue’s yoga instructor? Jim’s long-lost uncle? An old friend from a Sierra Club trip to the Himalayas the Jensens did years ago?