When Day Breaks (19 page)

T
he heavy rain fell steadily as the taxicabs and limousines let out their passengers in front of the Cameron Finlay Funeral Home on Manhattan’s East Side. The invited mourners scurried past a dozen drenched camera crews set up on the wet pavement. Boyd joined the others, shaking their umbrellas and hanging up their raincoats on the racks provided in the vestibule off the main foyer. One by one the guests found their way to the chapel, took their seats, and filled up the rows until there was standing room only.

Boyd walked halfway up the side aisle and rested against the wall. He surveyed the room, thinking it could have been lunchtime at the KEY News cafeteria. He recognized almost every somber face. Eliza Blake was already there, flanked by Dr. Margo Gonzalez and Range Bullock. Annabelle Murphy sat behind them. Linus Nazareth sat on the opposite side of the aisle, surrounded by most of the
KTA
staff. Boyd watched as Lauren Adams strode down the center aisle and took the seat that Linus had saved for her.

In the front row, Boyd spotted Constance’s sister and deduced that the doltish-looking character sitting next to her must be her husband. There were two young boys seated on the other side of Faith. Those were probably the kids Constance commanded he go out and buy Christmas presents for last year. She hadn’t offered the slightest hint of what might interest them, because she had no idea. Boyd wondered how wise it was for them to have been brought here today, considering that the brass box on the table contained the remains of their aunt.

He felt for the envelope containing the copy of Constance’s will in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
In a little while,
Boyd thought,
Faith is going to be absolutely miserable.

There was a middle-aged woman he couldn’t place, sitting near the back of the room. Boyd studied her lined, makeup-free face. Though he had never met her, Boyd guessed she might be Ursula Bales, Constance’s housekeeper. She had said that she was going to come when he’d called her yesterday to let her know about the funeral.

There was Stuart Whitaker, looking like he’d lost his only friend. Boyd watched as Stuart took off his glasses and rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. Stuart must have felt he was being watched. He glanced up and nodded at Boyd.
You poor bastard,
thought Boyd, as he nodded back.
You really loved that woman, didn’t you?

Scattered around the room were several clean-shaven, somberly dressed men who Boyd speculated could be plainclothes police officers, there to study the crowd. Murderers had been known to come to the funerals of their victims—or at least that was what they always said on television crime dramas.

Leaning against the wall waiting for the service to begin, Boyd supposed it stood to reason that he’d be stuck standing for Constance’s funeral. To the very end, he was being reminded of his place in her life. Expected to show up, but not considered important enough to have a seat.

From the corner of his eye, Boyd caught someone new entering the room. As he turned and recognized the man with the dark, windblown hair just finding a seat, Boyd felt a burst of adrenaline. He hadn’t invited Jason Vaughan. What was
he
doing here?

O
God of grace and glory, we remember before you this day our sister Constance. We thank you for giving her to us, her family and friends, to know and to love as a companion on our earthly pilgrimage. In your boundless compassion, console us who mourn. Give us faith to see in death the gate of eternal life, so that in quiet confidence we may continue our course on earth, until, by your call, we are reunited with those who have gone before.”

As the service wore on, one of the mourners started coughing and eventually got up and walked out to get a drink. On the way back from the water fountain, there was time to stop at the coatracks.

Boyd Irons had hung his trench coat on one of the front racks. A monogrammed handkerchief and crumpled credit-card receipt in the pocket confirmed ownership.

The killer took the unicorn out and went to wipe it thoroughly, determined not to leave any fingerprints on it. But in the rush to complete the task, the unicorn slipped, its pronged crown and horn slicing across the killer’s palm.

With no time to waste, the killer finished wiping the unicorn clean before dropping it into the pocket of Boyd’s trench coat.

A
candle burned in front of the brass box that held Constance’s ashes, and Ursula tried to keep her eyes fixed on it. She concentrated on her breathing, struggling to calm herself. She had seen the killer leave the room and then return, walking right by her on the trips up and down the aisle.

Ursula didn’t think the killer had noticed her, though. For once she was grateful that she was a middle-aged, basically nondescript woman who wore no makeup and didn’t color her hair. She was a wren, not a swan, and people didn’t notice her much. Ursula wanted it to stay that way.

At the conclusion of the service, Ursula stood and waited with respect as Constance’s sister and her family filed out first, followed by each of the other people in the aisles from front to back. As the killer approached, Ursula felt a cold sweat break out across her brow. She steadied herself using the back of the chair in front of her. The killer came closer, and Ursula’s heart beat faster until she felt her legs slide out from under her and everything went black.

“Give her some air, will you? Stand back and give her some air.”

The small group that had gathered around the unconscious woman shifted position.

Ursula heard the voice calling.

“Wake up. Wake up.”

Ursula felt somebody rubbing her forehead. Slowly, she was able to will her eyelids open. She stared blankly, unable to focus.

“Do you hear me?” asked the voice. “Can you hear me?”

Ursula’s eyes widened as the image of the face above her became clearer. She pressed back against the floor, cringing beneath the figure kneeling over her.

“So we meet again.”

“I won’t tell,” Ursula whimpered. “I won’t tell. Please, don’t hurt me. I won’t tell.”

“She’s coming to, but she’s making no sense,” said someone in the crowd. “She’s incoherent.”

“What is she talking about?” asked another voice.

The killer stared directly into Ursula’s eyes and, reading the abject fear there, knew with deadly certainty just what Ursula was talking about.

F
aith stood at the back of the funeral home, shaking hands and accepting condolences. The expression on her face was somber, but when Boyd Irons pressed the envelope containing a copy of her sister’s will into her hands, Faith had to work hard not to break out in a smile.

“Mrs. Hansen? I hate to bother you at a time like this, but my name is Stuart Whitaker. I was a great admirer of your sister.”

Faith glanced over at the brass box holding Constance’s ashes, which had been placed on the table in the funeral home hall, and then extended her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Whitaker,” she said. “I know who you are.”

“You do?” asked Stuart. “Did Constance talk about me?” The downcast expression on his face brightened a bit.

“No,” said Faith. “I saw you on television the other night talking about the memorial garden you want to create for Constance at the Cloisters.”

Stuart’s mouth turned down again. “Oh, yes. I am hoping that you and I will be able to talk about the garden at some time that might be convenient to you. I would like very much to have your input.”

Faith thought the man looked and sounded sincere. Observing Stuart Whitaker’s bald head, paunch, and bitten fingernails, Faith was confident that her sister had never gone for this guy, though
he
had so clearly gone for Constance. Faith felt sorry for him and wished she hadn’t been so quick to let him know that Constance had never bothered to mention him.

“Thank you, Mr. Whitaker. That’s very kind of you.”

Stuart looked over at the brass box sitting on the table.

“Do you mind telling me what you are going to do with them?” he asked.

Faith followed his gaze. “Oh, the ashes?” she asked. “For now I’m taking them home with me until we decide what we’ll do with them. Though, honestly, my boys just told me they don’t want to ride in the car with them back to New Jersey.”

Stuart looked longingly at the brass box. “Forgive me for being so presumptuous, Mrs. Hansen,” he said, bowing slightly, “but it would be my honor to take care of Constance’s remains until they can be transferred to the memorial garden.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Whitaker, but we haven’t even settled on the fact that Constance remains
will
be transferred to the garden.”

“Oh, Mrs. Hansen, of course that is your decision entirely,” said Stuart, flustered. “I just thought that Constance’s family would like the idea of her having a peaceful and fitting resting place. Since Constance was so young, I guess I just assumed that there would not already be plans in place for where she would spend eternity.”

At that, two young boys approached and began whining that they wanted to go home. Faith picked up the brass box.

“Mr. Whitaker, it’s clear you cared deeply about Constance. Let’s talk about the future of these ashes. Do you have a card?”

Stuart dug a business card out of his wallet.

“I’ll call you,” said Faith.

Stuart watched Faith walk away, carrying what was left of the woman he loved tucked under her arm.

T
he rain had let up, but as the mourners filed out of the funeral home, they were barraged instead by a crowd of camera crews and reporters shouting their names.

Before getting into a waiting car, Eliza Blake stopped to give the obligatory comment on what a fine newswoman Constance Young was and how she would be missed. Linus Nazareth, always eager for his own face to appear on the screen, said something about the rich and wonderful years at
KEY to America
with Constance as host. Lauren Adams spoke about how she had such big shoes to fill and the obligation she felt to the country’s viewers to do her best to follow in Constance’s footsteps.

“Who are you?” called one reporter to the young, balding man who came out of the funeral home.

“Nobody important, pal. Just her assistant,” said Boyd, reaching into the pocket of his trench coat. As he pulled out his handkerchief to blow his nose, something fell to the sidewalk.

The reporter glanced down to see what had fallen.

“Jesus, is that what I think it is?” he asked. Without waiting for a reply from the stunned man staring down at the sidewalk, the reporter yelled for his cameraman to get a close-up of the ivory unicorn with the emerald eye lying on the wet pavement.

The word spread like wildfire among the journalists on the sidewalk in front of the funeral home. Reporters, producers, and camera crews jostled and pushed one another in an effort to get closer to Boyd Irons. Boyd picked up the ivory unicorn from the pavement and held it in his open palm, staring at it with astonishment.

“That looks like the King Arthur unicorn,” said a reporter, thrusting a microphone at Boyd. “What are
you
doing with it?”

“That’s the ivory unicorn that police think Constance Young could have been killed for!” yelled another reporter. “Where did you
get
it?”

Unable to speak, Boyd shook his head.

“Hold up that unicorn so we can get a picture of it!” called a cameraman.

Stunned, Boyd was about to lift up the unicorn to allow it to be photographed when he felt a strong hand pull his arm down.

“Come on, Boyd,” said B.J. D’Elia. “Let’s get out of here.” B.J. guided Boyd forward and pushed slowly through the noisy mob. As they finally reached the KEY News crew car, two of the men Boyd had noticed at the funeral service approached, flashed their police identification, and read Boyd Irons his rights as they fastened cuffs around his wrists.

W
hat luck! It couldn’t have worked out any better than this. Now there’d be no reason for an anonymous call to the police with the information that Boyd Irons had the stolen unicorn. Boyd Irons had tipped off the police himself by dropping the unicorn for all the world to see. Perfection.

Still, there was the unsettling matter of Constance Young’s housekeeper, looking up from the floor, the color drained from her face, promising that she wouldn’t tell anyone what she’d seen. Thinking back to the night of Constance’s electrocution, recalling the noise that had come from up on the deck, the killer felt with a fatal certainty that the housekeeper had been watching from some unseen perch. The article in the newspaper had detailed that Ursula Bales’s sister had been killed after cooperating with authorities on a drug case. That would explain why Ursula herself had not gone to the police after watching Constance’s final moments.

Ursula Bales knew too much. Ursula Bales had the potential to ruin everything. Ursula Bales was going to have to be taken care of, quickly, before she changed her mind and went to the police after all.