Морган Лливелин - Drop by Drop

Morris Saddlethwaite removed his hand from the bowl of peanuts. “Wha?”

“Sounded like the siren at the fire station.”

“I didn’t hear any… oh yeah, now I do.”

“It was the fire alarm, all right,” Bill Burdick confirmed. “And there it goes again. Must be something big.”

Watson slid off the barstool. “Put that last drink on the tab, Bill, I better get over there.”

“You don’t have a tab, Hoop.”

“Yeah, great, just put it on.” Hooper was already hurrying out the door.

“A man with that much alcohol in ’em gets anywhere near a fire,” Saddlethwaite remarked as he reached for Watson’s unfinished drink, “he just might combust.”

Nell checked her wristwatch every few minutes while the tiny hands sliced away sections of the hour. The solicitous maître d’ inquired if she would like another glass of wine, but she refused. On an empty stomach it would make her dizzy and she wanted to keep her head clear for Rob. Perhaps it would be a good idea to order a plate of canapés, something to nibble on. Edibles she could substitute for a meal if she had to. In case she needed to drive home alone. In case there was ice on the roads.

The cold was gathering outside.

And Rob wasn’t coming after all.

Another ten minutes, she told herself. I’ll give him another ten minutes.

The cork soundproofing of the Golden Peacock muffled the scream of sirens on the highway.

Sunnyslope offered the best view in the Sycamore River Valley. Beyond the wrought-iron gates an expanse of manicured lawn descended by gentle degrees to the river. The parklike atmosphere was enhanced by carefully selected shrubbery, mostly evergreens that still had leaves in November. To keep them company a few treasured specimens of the nearly extinct American elm tree raised prayerful arms to heaven.

Only a few automobiles were parked on the paving at the end of the drive. Two black limousines waited among them. With the hearse.

For the rest of her life Nell would remember that the people of Sycamore River had made a pilgrimage to the cemetery on foot out of respect for her husband.

That was the way she chose to remember it.

She and her children had been assigned seats in the front row of wooden folding chairs beneath the funeral marquee. Beside the grave. Nell remained standing to greet the mourners and introduce them to each other. So many people. The family: Mom and the elderly cousins; the friends—mostly hers, not Rob’s—and the numerous acquaintances; the business associates; a scattering of strangers… I’ll never remember all their names, she thought. But Rob would expect it.

Rob.

Rob.

For once Colin and Jessamyn were subdued. In the funeral home when the director handed their mother the bronze urn containing her husband’s ashes, Jessamyn had broken into uncontrollable sobbing. She was quiet now. Too quiet. Jess had thought of herself as “Daddy’s little girl,” and she was taking this very hard.

Colin’s expression was frozen. To his mother he looked both older and younger than a week before.

A tall, thin man with an acne-scarred face approached Nell and extended his hand. “I’m Tyler Whittaker, the chief of police, Mrs. Bennett. I’m sorry about what happened.” He spoke softly, as befitted the occasion.

“You’re very kind.” The response had become automatic.

“I’m in charge of the investigation, and I’d like to talk to you after—”

“Yes. After. Tomorrow, maybe.”

“As soon as possible, while memories are fresh,” he urged.

“Yes.”

He wondered if she heard a word he was saying. “We don’t have much in the way of forensic capabilities so I’m calling in a team from the state capital.”

“Yes.” Nell looked past him.

“It will take some time, though.”

She shifted her eyes to meet his. “Everything takes time, doesn’t it? Except dying. Death can happen in an instant.”

Jack Reece had escorted Bea Fontaine to the funeral. They traveled in her Volkswagen with its new high-performance tires because she insisted his scarlet Mustang was too flamboyant for the occasion. As they approached the marquee Bea kept one hand firmly on his arm. She knew herself to be a strong woman, but recent events had upset her balance.

A lot of people in Sycamore River felt that way.

“I’d like to speak to Nell before the service begins,” she told Jack, “but I don’t know what to say to her. There aren’t any words for a situation like this.”

“Remind her that her husband died a hero,” he suggested.

Bea frowned at him. “Do you have a shred of sensitivity? Sometimes I wonder.”

“Well, it’s true. There are five little boys in the hospital who might be having their funerals today if Robert Bennett hadn’t tried so hard to save them. I never liked the man, but I’m willing to give the devil his due.”

“Please don’t say that to Nell Bennett. She’s a friend of mine and I can only imagine what she’s going through.”

“Is she the blonde over there, in the dark blue coat? She looks like a deer caught in the headlights.” Jack made a quick decision. “Wait here a minute.”

He disengaged Bea’s hand from his arm and walked briskly toward the marquee, where a line of people was forming to speak to the widow. Jack elbowed his way past them as if he had every right to go to the head of the line. He interposed himself between Nell and the police chief and said to Tyler Whittaker, “Mrs. Bennett needs to sit down now . You can wait for another time.”

A moment later Nell was seated in her chair with a printed sheet for the funeral service in her hand. She would remember this too: the sense of being gathered up and swept away by a force of nature.

Jack deftly maneuvered the disconcerted chief of police out from under the marquee. Tyler Whittaker had the authority of his office behind him, but Jack Reece radiated a different kind of authority; a steely confidence that dared a man to challenge him. The situation put Whittaker at a disadvantage. He could not make a scene; protocol must be observed at the funeral of one of the town’s prominent citizens.

When they were out of earshot of the others Whittaker demanded in his normal tone, “Do I know you?”

“Jack Reece. Bea Fontaine at the S and S is my aunt; you probably know her.”

Whittaker was mentally running through a list of names. “Do you have any connection with Mrs. Bennett?”

“Only the desire to protect a woman from being harassed.”

“I wasn’t harassing her, I was… Jack Reece?” Whittaker narrowed his eyes. “Bennett’s P.A. told me he tried to hire a man called Jack Reece for some security work.”

“Tried, yes, but I declined the offer.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Security work isn’t really my line.”

“Then why did he offer you the job? What is your line, anyway?”

Before Jack could answer—if he intended to—Bea Fontaine interrupted them and pointedly asked Jack to take her to a seat. She did not like to see the chief of police questioning him. His habitual evasiveness was enough to make anyone suspicious and there were too many suspicions already.

Since the explosions and fire at RobBenn the local rumor mill had gone into overdrive. The extensive damage had uncovered disquieting aspects of the operation. Robert Bennett’s policy of secrecy was responsible for suppositions and conspiracy theories that could ruin reputations before the truth was discovered. If it ever was.

Gerry and Gloria Delmonico were the last couple to be seated under the marquee, and then only because Gloria’s pregnancy was becoming obvious. Eleanor Bennett had introduced them to the other guests as if she were sleepwalking.