Three Bedrooms, One Corpse - By Charlaine Harris Page 0,48

actually doing it. She went up the stairs at a pace a little brisker than her previous shamble. She was patting her hair absently, doing some damage-control evaluation.

I washed the dishes. I left them in the drainer to irritate Susu into putting them away.

She came down in thirty minutes, looking more like herself.

“When is he supposed to have done her in?” I asked.

“Well, Wednesday night.”

“But he took your son to karate practice, or something, that evening, didn’t he? And he was at work until then, right? After practice, he came right home to supper?”

“Yes.”

So much for it having been Jimmy’s car Donnie had seen.

“So when did he find time to go over to the Anderton house, screw Tonia Lee, and kill her?” I asked.

“That’s true,” she said slowly. “I guess I was just so quick to believe he did it because he’s been acting so funny lately.”

“He may be going through a hard time, Susu. He may even need therapy or something. But I really don’t think Jimmy ever killed anyone.”

“I’d better get down there. Thanks for coming by, Roe. I just kind of gave up.”

“Sure,” I said, not feeling noble at all.

“Of course, if he did do it, I’ll never want to see you again,” she said with a tiny smile.

“I know.”

She’d never been as dumb as she liked to seem.

I was getting back into my car when suddenly I realized that this was the morning of Tonia’s funeral. Another unpleasant task. I looked at my watch. I had thirty minutes. I raced back to the townhouse, dashed up the stairs, tore off my clothes and pulled on my winter black dress, loose and long with a drop waist. No time to bother with a slip; no time to pull on panty hose. I rummaged through the closet and got my black boots. The dress needed a necklace or scarf or something, but there simply wasn’t time, and my earrings would just have to do. I yanked on my coat and ran to the car.

The Flaming Sword of God Bible Church was a rectangular cement-block building painted white, with a parking lot of ruts and dust. A cold wind whistled straight through my clothes as I got out of my car. I pulled my coat tighter around me with one hand and held my hair out of my face with the other. I gusted into the little church along with the chilly wind. The parking area had been crowded, and the church was jammed to capacity. I’d seen a television news truck outside, parked in the rear along with the hearse, and the camera crew was in the church. I was willing to bet Donnie was responsible for that. There was no place to sit; every pew was jam-packed with solid Lawrencetonians in their winter coats. I hovered at the back, trying to spot a dark corner. My mother’s basilisk glare found me anyway. Of course, she’d arrived on time, and was seated decorously in the middle of the church, along with the other members of the staff of Select Realty. They were all there except Debbie Lincoln, who presumably was manning the phone at the office.

For a moment I looked for Idella, before I remembered.

The coffin was sitting at the front of the church. I was thankful it was closed. It was covered with a pall of red carnations, and the sharp scent of the flowers carried through the chilly air. There was no organ, but a pianist was playing something subdued and doleful, maybe “Nearer, My God, to Thee.” The minister entered from a door by the altar. He was a plain young acne-scarred man, with eyebrows and lashes so light they were almost invisible. He clutched a Bible, and he had on a cheap dark suit, white shirt, and black tie. There was a shifting on all the hard pews. I recognized Mrs. Purdy down at the front, wearing navy blue and pearls. Beside her, Donnie’s white face stood out over a suit of unrelieved black.

“Let us bow our heads in prayer,” the minister intoned. His voice was unexpectedly rich. I did so, uneasily aware that a member of the camera crew was eyeing me with speculation. I began to edge away as unobtrusively as possible. I was afraid I had been recognized. The cameras had caught me before, when the Real Murders deaths had taken place. Surely no one would approach me until the service was over. The cameraman had poked the reporter, a very