Free Hymn by Graham Masterton Page B

their mouths open. At last, the man managed to blurt out, ‘She died?’
    â€˜How could she die?’ the woman asked.
    Lloyd took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. ‘I’m sorry. There was an accident, she was burned. Nobody really knows what happened.’
    â€˜Oh my God,’ said the woman. Her hair was white, her face was white. ‘Oh my God, tell me it’s not true.’
    The man climbed out of the car and stood next to Lloyd. He was short, bulky-chested and large-headed, but still quite handsome for his age.
    â€˜Sir,’ he said, ‘I don’t even know who you are. It seems like Celia hasn’t been giving us the whole picture. I’m sorry.’
    Lloyd shook his head. ‘Lloyd Denman. Celia and I were going to be married. This house here . . . well, we were joint owners.’
    â€˜This is quite a shock,’ the man replied. ‘We didn’t even know that Celia was seeing anybody, let alone planning to marry. Oh, by the way, I’m Wayne . . . this is Vela.’
    â€˜Do you want to come in?’ Lloyd asked them. ‘I’ve just been down to the mortuary. I could use a drink.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ said Wayne. He walked around the car and opened the passenger door so that Vela could climb out. ‘Burned, you say? How did that happen? Was it an auto accident?’
    â€˜Come on inside, and I’ll tell you,’ said Lloyd.
    He led them into the house. The two of them jostled against each other as they looked around the white-painted living-room, as if they were out-of-town tourists in a smart La Jolla art gallery.
    â€˜The lemon picture,’ said Vela, suddenly. ‘That used to be mine, the lemon picture. Who’ll Buy My Lemons?’
    â€˜Please, have a seat,’ Lloyd told them. ‘Do you want a drink? Or coffee maybe?’
    â€˜Do you have a diet soda of any kind?’ asked Wayne.
    â€˜Nothing for me, thank you,’ said Vela.
    â€˜Please, sit down,’ Lloyd insisted, as he walked through to the kitchen, but still they wouldn’t sit.
    â€˜We’d really like to know what happened,’ said Wayne.
    Lloyd came back with a can of diet 7-Up, popped the top, filled a heavy-bottomed Boda glass, and handed it over to Wayne. Then he poured himself a large Wild Turkey.
    â€˜It seems that she took her own life,’ he said.
    â€˜What?’ said Vela.
    â€˜It seems that she committed suicide.’
    â€˜But why? She was so happy! I never knew her so happy! Her career at the opera was going so well . . . she had so many friends. And she was going to be married, which we didn’t even know. Why, in heaven’s name, should she commit suicide?’
    Lloyd stared at the carpet. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t have any idea.’
    â€˜She didn’t leave a note?’ asked Wayne, his voice trembling.
    â€˜Nothing. No clues at all. The police have asked me to try and think of some reason why she might have done it, but I can’t.’
    Vela was shaking her head and sobbing, her wrinkled red-fingernailed hands slowly clawing at each other in anguish.
    â€˜I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.’
    Lloyd said, ‘Maybe you can think of some reason. You obviously knew her pretty well.’
    Wayne’s crumpled-up expression unfolded like origami in reverse. ‘Pardon me? Of course we knew her pretty well. I thought you understood. We’re her parents.’
    Lloyd stared at Wayne, then at Vela, and then back at Wayne. “You’re her parents? Her real parents? She told me that both her parents were dead.’
    Wayne at last sat down, and laid his arm around Vela’s shaking shoulders. ‘Lloyd,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what the blazes has been going on here. But whatever it is, I think Vela could use a doctor right now. Her heart’s not too good, and this is just about as much shock as she