Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jack stop by the door. He walked back to me.
“Careful,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Rough neighborhood.”
Anyone else, I would have assumed he was joking and laughed. Jack’s expression was dead serious.
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “Thanks.”
Thirty minutes later, Jack joined me. I turned the radio down.
“Did he come around?” I asked.
Jack fastened his seat belt. “He doesn’t know anything.”
* * *
ELEVEN
When we drew near enough to Pittsburgh to get the local stations, we learned that Joyce Scranton’s visitation was scheduled for that afternoon. It seemed early—they certainly wouldn’t have released the body—but a call to the funeral parlor confirmed it. Getting into that visitation would be the best way to learn about Joyce. As both the radio and the funeral parlor stressed, though, it was a private affair, for family and friends only. I thought that would make Jack veto the idea, but he only insisted on a good story and a good disguise, then left me to it.
Joyce Scranton’s visitation was a rush job. Mismatched flowers, refreshments still in the bakery boxes, a guest book provided by the funeral home and only a single photo of Joyce, standing in for her body, which was still in Boston. One look around, and you knew someone had said, “Let’s just get this damned thing over with.” Two looks around, and you could figure out who that “someone” was.
When I’d first come in, I sought out Joyce’s estranged husband, Ron, to offer my condolences. Easier to get information if you’re forthright. I’d had a story at the ready, explaining a vague connection to Joyce, but Scranton’s gaze had moved past me before I said more than my name.
I walked to the picture to pay my respects, straightened it and picked up a discarded napkin someone had left beside it. Then I’d headed for the refreshment table, eying the unappetizing array of day-old cupcakes and brownies and wishing I’d grabbed one of those fresh muffins at the coffee shop. As I pretended to graze, I watched Scranton work the room, moving from person to person, offering fake-sad smiles, one-armed hugs and backslaps before quickly moving on, gaze lifting, now and then, to the clock on the far wall. A pretty brunette in her early twenties dogged his steps anxiously, as if she might misplace him. The college-age daughter, I assumed, until he veered over to a young red-eyed woman huddled in the corner with an elderly couple, and made a show of embracing her, before she slipped his grasp and hurried to the washroom. The elderly couple hurried after her, but not before unleashing lethal glares on Scranton.
At a mutter beside me, I turned to see a woman, silver haired but no older than late forties, skewering Scranton with the same deadly look.
“That was Bethany, I suppose,” I murmured, gaze sliding after the disappeared girl. “Joyce’s daughter. I’d seen pictures, but they were old school ones…”
“That’s Beth. Poor thing. And Joyce’s parents with her.”
I nodded at the brunette following Scranton. “Is that…? I thought there was only one daughter…”
The silver-haired woman snorted.
“Ah,” I said. “Not a daughter, then.”
As a group approached the table, she waved me to a quiet corner. “Can you believe he brought her here? The divorce not even final?”
Joyce Scranton—victim in life as in death. Stripped of her dignity even at her memorial. I swung a glare on Scranton, my nails digging into my palms, then shook it off and reminded myself why I was here: information.
“The divorce settlement was pretty much done, though, wasn’t it? I haven’t—” I forced a blush. “I hadn’t talked to Joyce in a while. I kept meaning to but…”
“We always think there will be more time, don’t we? Well, there wasn’t any time left with the settlement, either, though Joyce was finally showing some spunk, digging in her heels and asking for her fair share. She didn’t expect to get it, but she was making the effort.”
I spent a few more minutes with the woman, a school friend of Joyce’s, then moved on, hoping to get a better insight into the victim. The results were mixed. I certainly got the impression she’d been well liked. Yet even this memorial was like the media reports of her murder—the circumstances of her death overrode the importance of her life. After an hour of “What kind of madman is doing this?” and “Oh, God, if this can happen to Joyce, is anyone safe?” I headed