I'd introduced Laura to everyone as a DBA agent I was currently working with, Savich and Sherlock as FBI agents who were here to help us look into things. What things? Who had tried to kill Laura? I'd been as vague as possible as I'd smiled into Alyssum Tarcher's face with that news. It was an I'11-get-you-later smile and I'd swear he knew exactly what I was thinking.
Charlie Duck held the place of honor in the nave of the church, his beautifully carved silver urn set in the center of a circular piece of glass balanced on top of a hand-carved rosewood pyramid at least five feet tall. I couldn't tell how that round piece of smoky glass balanced on that pyramid point.
While we sat waiting for the service to begin, I gave them all a running commentary on the people I'd met.
Paul came in, but he didn't sit down beside me. In fact, he didn't even acknowledge me or Laura. He looked tired, his face gray, harsh shadows scored deeply beneath his eyes. More than that, he looked scared.
I looked around to see that every pew was filled. There were at least a hundred folk, a good two dozen more lining the back of the church. Everyone had left work and come here. All of a sudden conversation stopped.
Alyssum Tarcher, dressed in a black suit that quietly announced English bespoke, strode to the pulpit, which really wasn't a pulpit, but rather a long, thick mahogany board set atop marble pillars. The interior of the church was all like that-a mixture of styles and materials, announcing all sorts of possibilities but nothing specific, like an onion dome or a menorah.
Alyssum Tarcher cleared his throat and raised his head. Sunlight poured through the high windows and flooded over him. The air was perfectly still. There wasn't a sound. He gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Bagpipes sounded, low and raw and savagely beautiful. No one seemed surprised, evidently used to this.
The pipes played a wrenchingly sad set of chords, then grew more distant, softer, leaving only echoes.
"Charles Edward Duck," Alyssum Tarcher said in a rolling, powerful voice, "was a man who lived a full and rich life." I tuned him out, studying Paul's face in profile. What was going on?
"He was a police detective in Chicago until he retired to Edgerton to live with his aging parents, now deceased, some sixteen years ago. We will miss him. He was one of us." I heard the scrape of bagpipes again, minor chords sliding into one another, then nothing. Alyssum Tarcher, the patriarch, returned to sit in the first row.
Elaine Tarcher rose next. She looked slim and well groomed and rich. Her dark suit was elegant, somber. She wore pearls. When she spoke, her voice was full and deep with emotion. "I first met Charlie Duck at our annual New Year's Eve party back in the late-eighties. We were having the party that year at The Edwardian. Charlie played his guitar for all of us. Good-bye, Charlie."
A dozen townsfolk followed, the first representing the Anglican Church. It was Rob Morrison. He spoke briefly of Charlie's good nature, his acceptance of others, his tolerance.
Miss Geraldine, the leader of the town League, mayor of Edgerton, represented the Jewish religion. She spoke of Charlie's lack of anger toward anyone, his gentleness.
It appeared that everyone had seen Charlie Duck differently.
The final speaker was Mother Marco, ninety-three, who owned the Union 76 station. She was small and frail, and her pink scalp showed through soft, sparse white hair. "I don't represent any religion," she said in a surprisingly strong voice. "Well, maybe you could say I represent old age and the brink of death. I feel older than the rocks on the shore below Edgerton." The old lady grinned out at us all, showing big, very white false teeth. "And I'm proud of it. I knew Charlie Duck better than any of you. He was smart, was Charlie. He knew a bit about everything. He liked finding things out. If he didn't understand something, he dug and dug until he found his answers. Because he was a police detective in Chicago, he didn't have a high opinion of anybody. He wasn't blind about people."
Of all the speakers, I thought that old Mother Marco had hit Charlie right on.
Alyssum Tarcher walked to the wooden pyramid and picked up Charlie's silver urn and held it over his head. "To Charlie," he shouted. Everyone cheered, filed in behind Alyssum Tarcher, and marched out of the church.
"My, oh my," Sherlock said.
"Some show," Savich said.
I felt Laura's fingers close around my hand. "I don't want to go there," she said. "To the cemetery. I don't want to go."
"No, we don't have to. No one will expect us. After all, we are outsiders." I saw Rob Morrison beside Maggie Sheffield, and I thought of Detective Castanga. Margaret was my wife at one time.
"Who the hell are you?"
"This is Cotter Tarcher, guys. He's Alyssum's only son."
Cotter dismissed the two women and eyed Savich, his eyes dark and hot. Savich arched a dark eyebrow.
"Here we have the weakest link," I whispered to Laura.
"I asked you a question, buddy. What are you doing here? You don't belong here. Nobody invited you."
"Actually, I did," I said. I nodded toward both Sherlock and Savich, and showed Cotter that I was holding Laura's hand. "They're friends of mine."
Cotter said, "None of you should be here."
Savich smiled, a kick-ass smile that should have alerted Cotter but didn't. Savich knew exactly what he was doing. He'd taken Cotter's measure very quickly. "I enjoyed the performances, sport. Everyone who spoke was very talented. Why didn't you speak? No religion? No talent?"
Cotter's eyes flamed. He was quickly going beyond anger, to nearly out of control. What had happened to him? Cotter had a hair trigger and Savich had baited him well, but no one was more surprised than I was when Cotter took a swing at Savich. I didn't move; I even felt a bit sorry for Cotter. As for Sherlock, she said, "Oh, no. You idiot," but not in time.
Savich smoothly caught Cotter's wrist and squeezed it back down to his side. Cotter tried a kick but didn't make it. Savich grabbed Cotter's leg just behind his knee and flipped him into the air. He released Cotter's wrist only at the last minute before he landed on his back in a marigold bed, the move smoother than a twelve-year-old scotch.
Sherlock looked down at Cotter, her hands on her hips. "Why are you acting like an adolescent?"
"Get a grip on yourself," Savich said. "Consider growing up."
"None of you is worth a piece of shit. Big federal agents, that's a laugh. You'll never find out anything."
Cotter dragged himself out of the flower bed and stomped away.
"That man has real problems," Laura said.
"He's the local sociopath," I said. "So he doesn't think we're going to find out anything, does he?" I watched him speak to Alyssum Tarcher, and the older man shook his head. "When I first met him I thought he was just an immature hothead. But after seeing him perform today, I wonder if he's involved in all of this, his daddy's right hand?"
"His father looks like an aristocrat, a sleek greyhound among a pack of mutts," Sherlock said. "As for Cotter, he looks like a little bulldog."
"I think Cal and Cotter are different," Laura said. "Cal acts weird too, but Mac's never called her a sociopath."
"Hey," I said. "I only calls 'em like I sees 'em. At the very least we know that Cal's got great taste in men."
I saw Alyssum Tarcher look back at me. His face was cold but his eyes were suddenly as hot as his son's.
Chapter Eighteen
It was just after five-thirty in the afternoon when Savich and I pulled into the driveway of 12 Liverpool Street. Paul was indeed at home. Actually, both his car and Maggie Sheffield's sheriff's car were side by side in the driveway. We heard them yelling at each other from the front porch and stopped a moment beside a hanging plant that looked a lot happier than I did. We stood quietly outside the front door, listening.