“Honestly, no,” I told him. I missed my dad every day. Now Allison, all the time. I was in pain, standing there. I just couldn’t let myself feel it.
“Sorry to disturb you. My wife always said I’m too friendly. She said I could chat up a parking meter. I’ll leave you to it.” The old man looked down. “You won’t mind if I talk to Helen.”
“Not at all.” I regained focus, eyeing Junior’s funeral. I found Big George sitting in the front row of the mourners, broad and squat in a dark suit. He had lost weight since the photos I’d seen online, and his hair had gone grayish-white at the temples. He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, his head tilted down. He had lost a son, I had lost a daughter. No one expected to bury his child, even if the child had been a thug.
I scanned the mourners, men, women, and kids of all ages, even toddlers and babies. Worlds separated us, but they came together at the death of one of their own, heartbroken, devastated, and reeling. I tried not to project a kinship where there wasn’t one. They were the criminal organization responsible for Allison’s murder.
The priest stood at the head of the casket between large flower arrangements. An oversize photo of Junior rested on an easel, and I shuddered at his baby-faced menace. The photo brought back his glittering leer at Allison, the earsplitting gunshot, my daughter’s eyes, terrified.
I put the thought from my mind. Milo wasn’t there, I had been right. There were about fifty adult mourners, mostly rough-looking men in ill-fitting suits and a handful of young women in tight dresses. A short, shapely woman with long curls was crying more than the others, and I wondered if she was Junior’s girlfriend or wife.
I glimpsed someone else I recognized in the back row. Paul Hart. I felt my jaw clench, surprised he was here, publicly associating himself with Big George and GVO. Hart’s blond hair and horn-rimmed glasses stood out in the crowd, so did his well-tailored suit. He sat next to an attractive redhead in a chic black dress, too young to be his wife Pam.
The priest closed his missal, and the funeral was coming to an end. I found my eyes glued to Hart as the mourners rose. A bolt of anger shot through me. The man wasn’t even faithful to Lucinda. He didn’t deserve her for a minute. It killed me that I could never give her what she wanted, even if it was the wrong thing to want.
“I miss her cooking,” the old man said out of nowhere.
I nodded, distracted. Funeral directors were distributing red roses, and mourners began putting them on Junior’s casket.
“She made noodle and tuna casserole every Sunday. Matter of fact, I still got one in the freezer. Got the date on it and all. I won’t eat it. Can’t bring myself to.”
“I couldn’t either,” I said idly. The mourners were getting in line to pay their respects to Big George, shaking his hand and speaking with him. I tried to read their lips, but I could only catch words here and there, nothing of import.
“She used the wide noodles, not the skinny. Egg noodles. I know that doesn’t sound fancy, but it hit the spot. It was hearty.”
My attention shifted to the line of cars behind the limos. I was waiting for the mourners to disperse. I wanted to see who went to the dark blue BMW.
“Now, this might sound strange, but I don’t ever want to taste that noodle casserole, ever again. As much as I loved it, I don’t wanna taste it, ever.”
“I get that.” I kept my eyes on the funeral. Big George headed off first, climbing into the first limo with two beefy men. Other men got into the second and third limos.
“Say, would you like a hankie? You gotta let your feelings out. It’s not like it used to be. Everybody cries nowadays.”
“No, thank you.” I watched the departing mourners. One of the women tottered in high heels to the red Miata, and two of them went to the black Yukon, including the shapely one. A group of men went to one of the Escalades, and Hart and his girlfriend got into a charcoal Mercedes, 500 class. No wonder Lucinda had wanted a Mercedes. She wanted me to be Paul Hart.
“I wasn’t gonna offer you my hankie. I got better manners than that. You didn’t think I was gonna do that, did you?”
“No.” My eyes found three men talking near the dark blue BMW and a maroon Lexus. The limos idled at the curb. I waited to see which man would go to the BMW. My hunch was the one standing closest to the car. His face was turned away, so I couldn’t get a look at him. He had longish dark hair and was of average height, with skinny shoulders in a dark suit.
“Helen was Pennsylvania Dutch. She could even speak it. Not many people can. The Amish maybe, but not English, that’s what they call us.”
The man closest to the BMW turned, and I caught a glimpse of his face. He looked about thirty or so, with eyes set close together and a black goatee. He waved to the others and walked to the BMW, keys in hand. I felt my heart begin to pound. He was what a killer looked like, a normal person. I wondered if he had burned down my house.
“Lotta people don’t know Pennsylvania Dutch is really German, not Dutch. You know that?”
“Yes, well, it was good talking with you—”
“Don’t do it.”
“Pardon me?” I looked over, but the old man’s gaze bored into me.
“You’re in over your head, Bennett.”
I recoiled, shocked.
“Don’t do it. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”
I edged away, off-balance. He wasn’t a real widower. He must have been with the FBI, here for Junior’s funeral.
“You’re gonna get yourself killed.”
I turned on my heel and walked quickly toward the car. I didn’t run because I couldn’t arouse suspicion.
The first limo was pulling away from the curb, followed by the second, the third, and the flagged cars. The BMW was taking off.
I jumped in my car and joined the back of the line.
Chapter Thirty-Five
I felt stunned by the old man, blindsided. I followed the line of funeral cars at a safe distance, trying to recover my composure.
You’re gonna get yourself killed.
I never would’ve guessed he was an FBI agent. His age and folksy manner had thrown me off. I could have sworn I heard authentic grief in his voice. Maybe I was the one grieving, my emotions bollixed up.
Maybe the old man had been pulled out of retirement for the ruse. His appearance wouldn’t have aroused suspicion from anyone at Junior’s funeral. They would have dismissed him, as I had. It made me wonder if the other scattered mourners were real or undercover FBI.
I cruised forward, traveling behind the line of cars as they wound their way past clapboard houses. The road was two lanes, and there was almost no traffic. The maroon Lexus was in front of me, and the dark blue BMW was three cars up. Hart’s big Mercedes was a few cars ahead of the BMW. I had to assume that the funeral procession was going to the same place. In any event, it wasn’t suspicious that I was following them. Nobody passed a funeral.
I returned to my thoughts, trying to process what had just happened. The appearance of the old man could mean I didn’t have the head start I hoped for. The FBI had been there for its own purposes, but now they’d be onto me.
I stayed behind the line of funeral cars, and we snaked along the winding road. I knew it led to Kennett Square, a town I knew reasonably well. I didn’t know where they were going, maybe to a restaurant or back to the house. I was hoping to see where Big George lived, since I hadn’t been able to find his address online.