The Perfect Stranger (20 page)

When she asked Meredith what she meant by the comment, Meredith explained that the plot revolves around a character, George Bailey, who winds up destitute, other than a life insurance policy.

“But he’s the richest man in town in the end, of course,” Meredith said, “because he had friends, so many friends who loved him.”

As did Meredith.

The room is warm and crowded, the air thickly scented with the perfume of hundreds of women and all those funeral flowers. They’re everywhere, in vases and baskets and wreaths surrounding the urn and spilling over into the seating area—further testimony to just how much Meredith meant to so many.

Kay thinks of her own solitary life.

Mother’s raspy voice echoes in her head:
It’s not better to have loved and lost . . . If you don’t love, you can’t lose.

No. That isn’t the case at all, Kay thinks, inching forward with the line of mourners waiting to connect with the Heywood family.

You were wrong, Mother.
As wrong about that as you were about everything else.

When it’s her turn to meet the Heywoods, she moves robotically down the line with Landry and Elena, introducing herself as one of Meredith’s blogger friends.

“You all meant so much to Mom.” Meredith’s daughter clasps her hand. “She was always telling us about you.”

“She talked about all of you, too,” Kay tells her. “She was so proud of you. She told me all about the beautiful Mother’s Day party you all had a few weeks ago. She even e-mailed me pictures, and she said you made her favorite cheesecake . . .”

“Actually, I wound up buying it,” Rebecca Heywood replies with a sad smile. “I wish I’d had a chance to make it for her that day.”

“I’m sure it didn’t matter. What mattered to her was that you were all there with her. That’s what she remembered.”

And then the person behind her is reaching for Rebecca’s hand and it’s time for Kay to move on.

The rest of it—everything else she’d wanted to tell Meredith’s family—will have to be left unsaid.

Jaycee’s cell phone buzzes in her oversized bag on the passenger’s seat of the rental car as she pulls into the parking lot behind McGraw’s Funeral Home. She reaches inside without looking at it and turns it off. Whoever it is—probably Cory—can wait. The service was scheduled to start ten minutes ago. She wanted to be late—but not any later than this.

Clearly, Meredith was as popular with her real-life friends as she was with the online group. Every spot in the lot is taken.

Jaycee can’t help but flash back to another funeral in another time, another place. Empty parking lot, with only herself and the pastor to stand beside her grandmother’s simple pinewood casket.

She sobbed through that ceremony. Not because her grandmother was dead—she’d hated her. Not because she was pregnant, either. But because Steven Petersen—her one true friend, the love of her life—hadn’t had the decency to show up. He could have come for her sake, not for her grandmother’s; Steve had hated her, too.

That was the last time she allowed herself to shed tears in public. It was the last time she ever lost someone who truly mattered.

Steve.

After all they’d been through together . . .

No. Don’t think about that now.

Thoughts of Steve always lead to thoughts of
her . . .

Pushing the blood-drenched memories from her mind, Jaycee follows the signs and drives around the ugly yellow brick building to the overflow lot. The gravel patch there is nearly full of cars. On the far end, across from the last couple of empty spaces, she spots the sedan Landry rented at the airport.

Obviously, she, too, arrived late—despite her flight having landed with plenty of time to spare. Did Landry also dawdle in her hotel room, having second thoughts about showing her face here today?

In the end, Jaycee opted to come. The funeral, after all, is why she flew to Ohio in the first place this morning—aside from needing a convenient escape hatch.

She wasn’t going to allow herself to come all this way without paying her last respects to one of the few friends she had left in this world.

She pulls into a spot across from Landry’s rental, turns off the engine, and glances into the rearview mirror. Between her broad-brimmed black hat and oversized sunglasses, only her mouth, nose, and jaw are visible. No one is going to recognize her if she slips quietly into the back and then leaves early.

Her heels poke into the gravel as she steps out of the car. It’s slow going until she reaches the pavement. Now her pace is steadier, heels tapping along briskly. As she makes her way toward the entrance, she spots a black Crown Victoria—an unmarked cop car?

Of course.

Meredith was murdered. It would make sense that there would be a police presence at the service today. They’ll be watching the crowd carefully, looking for suspicious behavior, perhaps pulling people aside for questioning—a thought that’s almost enough to send Jaycee straight back to her car.

Before she can turn around, the door opens and a man in a dark suit beckons to her. The funeral director, she realizes. He’s been watching her approach through the glass panel. There’s nothing she can do but walk up the steps and cross the threshold.

“In there,” the man whispers, gesturing at a pair of closed doors.

She nods her thanks and crosses the foyer, conscious of his eyes on her. Reaching for the knob on the right, she gives it a gentle tug. Both doors swing open, but the one on the left quickly closes again with a loud sound before she can catch it.

Jaycee keeps her head down. There’s a rustling commotion; several people in the crowded room turn to look at her as she carefully closes the other door.

A robed reverend is speaking beside the gleaming urn—no plain pine box for Meredith Heywood’s remains—and every folding chair and inch of perimeter wall is occupied. No one else is wearing a hat or sunglasses. Realizing this getup makes her even more conspicuous, Jaycee removes both and wedges herself into a narrow slot beside the door, staring at the carpet, reminding herself why she’s here.

Not just because she wanted to escape New York on what would have been a difficult day, thanks to Cory’s early delivery of the morning paper with its disturbing news item.

No, she’s here for Meredith.

Meredith, who lived her life in such a way that her funeral is standing room only. When all is said and done, that’s all that really matters, although . . .

When her time comes, she thinks, her own funeral might be just as crowded—or more so. But not with friends and relatives who loved her for who she was and will truly miss her when she’s gone.

No—they’d be drawn to her funeral for very different reasons . . .

Unless something changes very drastically.

You can do that. You can change, even now. It’s not too late.

Meredith’s voice seems to fill her head.

Of course, even when she gave that little pep talk, Meredith never knew the truth about her . . .

But she does now, Jaycee realizes. Wherever she is.

Maybe her spirit really is here, offering support, and . . . forgiveness.

Jaycee closes her eyes, head bowed.

If you’re here, Meredith, I’m so sorry. I hope you know that I only did what I had to do.

What I thought I had to do.

As she reflects on the choices she made, a feeling creeps over her—not peaceful comfort, but a familiar wariness that has become second nature after all these years: the distinct sensation that she’s being watched.

She lifts her head slightly, half expecting to see Meredith’s ghost—or perhaps one of the bloggers, having somehow spotted her and figured out who she is.

That’s impossible, though. Even if they’re here, they can’t possibly know that you’re . . . you. Her. Whoever—whoever you’ve convinced them you are. Jaycee.

When she looks up, she finds herself making immediate eye contact with a woman who’s standing along the wall toward the front of the room, staring right at her.

She’s African-American, so she can’t be Landry, Kay, or Elena. She’s just some random person who for some reason seems to be paying more attention to the mourners than to the service itself.

She’s the cop, Jaycee realizes. God knows she’s had more than her share of contact with them. She can sniff out law enforcement even from this distance.

Now, as the woman gets a good look at her face, her eyes narrow with recognition.

Jaycee quickly looks down again, heart pounding. So much for blessed anonymity. The lady cop’s gaze remains as palpable as the searing glare of a heat lamp.

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

She shouldn’t have come. She should have fought the familiar old instinct to run away. Anniversary or not, newspaper article or not, she should have spent the weekend locked safely into her apartment in the sky, away from prying eyes.

As the service draws to a close with Meredith Heywood’s daughter reading a poem, there isn’t a dry eye in the house—except, perhaps, for Crystal’s and Frank’s.

It isn’t that they’re immune to emotion in a tragic case such as this, but when you’re a homicide detective, you have to compartmentalize.

Crystal sweeps yet another shrewd gaze over the crowd of mourners. Most of them are surreptitiously dabbing their eyes with tissues or sobbing openly.

Hank Heywood sits on the aisle seat in the front row with his head buried in his hands. Across the space vacated by Rebecca, her duplicitous husband Keith seems detached from her brothers, who sit beside him with their wives between them, all four of them clasping hands.

Keith is fixated on his wife as she reads the poem, not daring to sneak a peek at his secret boyfriend.

Jonathan Randall slipped into the service right after it started, standing in the back.

Crystal noticed him immediately—and noticed Keith turning his head to look for him moments later, as if sensing his presence. He offered a glassy smile when he spotted Jonathan, and Jonathan returned it.

Crystal watched them closely as the service progressed. They barely glanced at each other, but she could feel the vibe between them and knew they were as aware of each other as middle schoolers deliberately
not
noticing members of the opposite sex at a dance.

She also kept a steady eye on Hank Heywood. The man appears utterly shattered. His daughter kept her arm around him throughout the service, letting go only to walk shakily to the podium to read her poem.

Her voice wavers as she speaks, and she stops several times, too choked up to go on. Now the poem is winding down.

“And afterward, remember, do not grieve . . .”

As Rebecca reads the line, Crystal sees, out of the corner of her eye, movement near the exit at the back of the room.

She looks up just in time to see Jenna Coeur disappear through the double doors.

Crystal hadn’t immediately recognized her when she first arrived—late, and wearing an oversized black hat and sunglasses in a room almost entirely populated by sturdy, well-scrubbed midwesterners in department store suits and dresses.

She must have realized she stuck out like a cupcake on a plate of toast, because she skittishly removed the hat and glasses, further attracting Crystal’s attention. There was something furtive about her movements, the way she kept her head down . . .

Crystal’s instincts told her that she was looking at a woman who had something to hide.

The moment they made eye contact, Crystal realized that her instincts were dead on. She had something to hide, all right: she’d been at the center of one of the most notorious murder cases in recent years.

Jenna Coeur’s dark hair might be dyed blond or concealed beneath a wig now, but her natural beauty and famously distinct resemblance to the actress Ingrid Bergman was immediately recognizable. She looked like Bergman in
Casablanca
at the height of her career: the large eyes beneath arched brows, the strong nose, the high cheekbones.

What, Crystal wondered with interest—and yes, with suspicion—was
she
doing here?

After that fleeting eye contact, Jenna never lifted her head again, just stood staring at her clasped hands for the remainder of the service, as if praying.

Praying, no doubt, that she hadn’t been recognized.

But she had.

And now she’s made her escape, getting a head start before the mass exodus begins.

Crystal reminds herself that it may mean absolutely nothing, in the grand scheme of things.

Coeur was, after all, acquitted.

That may very well mean she didn’t commit murder.

It may also mean that she did—and got away with it.

Once, anyway.

Crystal weaves through the crowd as quickly as she can without disrupting the service.

At last she reaches the door and steps outside—just in time to hear a car spitting gravel as it pulls out of the parking lot onto the highway, just beyond her range of view.

Jenna Coeur, driving away.

But I won’t forget that you were here,
Crystal promises silently.
And believe me, I’m going to find out why.

A Cause Worth Fighting For

Last weekend, while I was tied up with a prior commitment, many of my fellow bloggers gathered for the National Breast Cancer Coalition Advocacy Training Conference. Here were women I’ve never met, but spend time with everyday. Whose words and work I admire. Whose thoughts I connect with. They gathered in Washington to fight for NBCC’s goal to end breast cancer by 2020.

At last, an exciting mission, empowering when embraced. For too long it seems we were stuck in a sea of pink, hearing of changes, wanting to believe advancements were being made. Needing to believe optimistic statistics when in actuality approximately 40,000 people still die from this disease every year.

About as many as two decades ago.

That’s not advancement. That’s not change. That’s a number hidden so far down in a sea of pink we barely see it, but deep within ourselves, where the scary thoughts thrive, we know it’s the truth. Pink awareness is not enough.

The people attending this event heard the conversation shift. They refocused on facts, and with a concrete goal in sight discussed how research, combined with action and dedication, could have the 2020 eradication deadline within our grasps.

Social media was at its finest as bloggers tweeted from their workshops. I couldn’t absorb the information fast enough and want to thank them for taking time to spread the inspiration around.

If I had to choose a place to be that weekend, it would have been there in Washington, beside this group of incredibly motivated women. Dragging cancer to the center of the room for all to see. Believing it was now possible to kick out the unwanted guest . . . never to be seen again.

—Excerpt from Jaycee’s blog,
PC BC