The Good Doctor. Karen Rose Smith
Kate kept walking.
“Then…a close friend?”
“Not really.”
As she reached the entryway, he reached out his hand to stop her. She swung around, staring down first at the hand on her forearm and then up into his face. A nice face. Nice enough to be in some of the fashion articles Joanna used to write. Maybe he had been, she thought. There was curiosity in the face, too. But the eyes—gray, she decided—were intense.
“Not really?” He repeated. Then he frowned. “You’re not a reporter, then?”
“No, for heaven’s sake. I met Joanna a long time ago. End of story.” She turned her back on him and headed for the door.
“Sorry again,” he called after her. “I’ve been trying to find someone she was close to.”
“I can’t help you there, but her husband is probably right outside.”
“He’s the last person I’d talk to.”
That stopped her. Kate pivoted around. “You’re not a relative?”
“No.”
“Friend? Colleague?”
“Hardly.” The edge returned to his voice.
The emotional fatigue of the past few days suddenly overwhelmed Kate. She was tired of this little game and only wanted to leave the church and go home. “Then I suppose neither of us has any relevant information to exchange.” Kate swung around and stepped out the church door into the glare of a July afternoon.
Lance Marchant was holding court at the foot of the steps leading up to the church. He craned his neck as Kate exited, frowning momentarily before turning his attention back to the small group of reporters interviewing him. As Kate passed, she became aware of a brief flurry of interest from the reporters, but it quickly evaporated when Joanna’s husband failed to acknowledge her.
Kate had to smile. So much for her fifteen seconds of fame, she thought. Then she remembered why she was there—and why the reporters were there. Walking briskly through the knots of people milling on the church lawn, she headed with grim determination to the rental car parked in the lot beside the church.
The day was already gearing up for more record heat. Kate was grateful for the air-conditioning that had made the drive to Westchester more tolerable. When she’d read that Joanna’s funeral would be held outside New York City, she’d decided to rent a car rather than travel by public transit. She hesitated at the entrance to the lot, scanning it for the small white Escort.
“Lost your car?”
She turned, thinking the man from the church had followed her to the parking lot. But the man a few feet to her right was another stranger. He was short, balding and red-faced from the heat. His baggy tan slacks dipped beneath a bulging stomach, and the rumpled sports jacket looked as though it had been acquired at a secondhand clothing store. His white shirt, straining at its row of buttons, clung to him in unsightly patches. He threw the cigarette he’d been smoking onto the pavement, ground it under his heel and huffed his way toward her.
Watching him made Kate feel cool. “When I got here, there weren’t so many vehicles,” she said.
He glanced behind her at the lot. “Uh-huh. And most of them limos.”
Kate suddenly noticed a sleek black limo angled in front of the Escort, blocking any quick exit she might have made. “Great,” she muttered. She pulled the material of her navy blue sleeveless dress away from her damp skin. Five more minutes in this lot, she figured, and she’d look like the man standing beside her.
“Problem?” he asked.
Kate sighed, tugging at the dress again. “My car—it’s behind that black limo in the second row.”
“Uh-oh. Hopefully the owner won’t be long. Unless he—or she—is attending the postfuneral reception in the church manse.”
Kate fanned herself with the rolled-up funeral service program. “How long will that be?”
“You’re not going?”
“No. I’m not family and…well, it wouldn’t be appropriate.” In fact, she was thinking, it would be downright awful to have to mingle with a bunch of strangers, picking up snippets of talk about Joanna.
“Not family, eh? You in the fashion trade, too, then?”
His eyes, small and deep-set in his fleshy face, swept over her.
“No, I’m a teacher,” she replied, wishing he’d go away. What was it with all the questions? she wondered.
She glanced around to see if the owner of the limo might be walking their way, but all she saw was a group of uniformed drivers standing smoking under a tree in the far corner of the lot.
“Friend of Mrs. Marchant, then?”
Kate turned her head. He was almost her height, making the top of his glistening forehead about even with her nose. His face was tilted up, allowing a brief glimpse of trickles of sweat dripping off the folds of skin beneath his chin. Kate looked away.
“Guess I’ll see if one of those drivers can move the car,” she said, moving off, hoping to put some distance between herself and the man.
But he followed. “Were you a close friend of Mrs. Marchant’s?”
The way he used her married name told Kate he wasn’t exactly Joanna’s bosom buddy, either. She stopped and turned toward him. “No, I wasn’t. Why are you asking?”
“Just curious about why you came to the funeral.”
Kate narrowed her eyes at him. “And what business is that of yours?”
He’d taken a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and was now mopping his forehead with it. “Guess I should have identified myself. Sergeant Tom Andrews, Westchester County Police.” He started to extend the arm holding the handkerchief, then apparently thought better of it.
The introduction didn’t exactly warm Kate to him. Instead, she wondered why he’d taken so long to get around to it. “And?” she prompted in her best schoolteacher voice.
He straightened at her tone, tucking away the handkerchief and digging in his jacket pocket for his badge. Kate scarcely had a glimpse of it before it was stowed away again. “Just making a few inquiries of the funeral guests, that’s all, Miss…?”
“Reilly. Kate Reilly. Is it customary for the police to attend the funeral of a suicide victim?”
He seemed to look at her with new interest. “Police like to get information on any death where there are unusual circumstances.”
A calm stillness settled over her while a tiny voice inside whispered, I knew it! I knew it! “And…what are the unusual circumstances around Joanna Barnes’s death?”
He frowned. “Sorry, I can’t get into the details. What exactly was your connection to Mrs. Marchant, or Miss Barnes?”
“I met her when I was a young girl. We haven’t seen each other in nineteen years, but she corresponded.”
“She ever talk about being depressed? Suicidal feelings?”
Kate bit down on her lower lip and shook her head. After she’d managed to regain control of her voice, she said, “No. We…uh, we weren’t close enough for her to talk about things like that.”
He kept his eyes on her, nodding his head thoughtfully. “I see. Okay. Well, thank you very much, Miss Reilly. How about if I find out which one of those guys over there belongs to the limo blocking your car? I’ve got to talk to them, anyway.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it,” Kate murmured, his question still pounding in her ears. She ever talk about being depressed? If only Joanna had written about her personal life