Free Deadly Currents by Beth Groundwater Page B

sudden urge to run and had to force her legs to stay still. She licked her lips. C’mon girl, you have as much right to be here as anyone else. She squared her shoulders then marched across the street and up the steps.
    Once inside, she slid into a back pew. Almost instantly, she wished she had worn a sweater, because the antique building’s thick walls and dark lighting kept the interior cool. The multi-colored sunlight that filtered through the stained glass windows on the east side cast little warmth, and the solid seat of the carved wooden pew chilled the backs of her thighs. She tucked her skirt tighter around her legs.
    Paula King sat in the front pew, her tall back stiff, her blond hair perfectly coiffed. A young man in an ill-fitting suit brought her a cup of water and sat next to her. Mandy recognized the tall, lean frame of Paula’s son, Jeff King, his wavy brown hair pulled into a neat ponytail. She flashed back to the scene of Paula screaming hysterically on the river bank and a stunned Jeff patting his mother on the back like an automaton.
    Then another memory surfaced, one she thought she’d drowned long ago, of her parents’ funeral service, in a cool, dark church like this one, though it was larger and situated in downtown Colorado Springs. Mourners had filled the pews, and Mandy had felt the collective weight of their sympathetic stares as she squirmed in the front pew.
    The whole ceremony had been a relentless torture while she held in her tears, refusing to break down in public. She had counted backward from five hundred, made imprint designs in her palms with her fingernails, indexed the colors in the stained glass windows—anything but listen to people talk about how her parents had died so young, leaving her and her brother so alone. If not for the methodic massage of her uncle’s hand on her shoulders, easing her tension and giving her overwrought senses something to focus on, she would have broken down and screamed out her grief.
    Stifling a present-day, sympathetic squirm, Mandy shook off the memory and glanced around to see if her uncle might be in attendance at Tom King’s service, too. If so, maybe she could creep up and sit next to him. He’d understand her need for his touch. She couldn’t spot him, but she did see something that surprised her.
    Rob sat a few rows ahead, his back to her and his hair curling over the collar of his only sport coat. His head was bowed and his lips moved. When he raised his head, he crossed himself, an instinctive movement from his Catholic upbringing. She’d attended a few Sunday services at the Catholic church with him, but she wasn’t sure she could ever get used to all the genuflecting.
    Why did he come to the funeral, and why didn’t he tell her he was coming? What was his connection to the King family?
    Looking farther, she spied Detective Quintana in the other back pew across the aisle from her. The man was systematically surveying the attendees and making notes in a small notepad. When he noticed Mandy, he gave a nod, then continued writing.
    What was up with that?
    A deep chord struck by the organist drew Mandy’s thoughts back to the service. She scanned the program crumpled in her hand. It looked like the service would be mercifully short, with only a eulogy by King’s son and a few testimonials by others. And there was no casket up front, thank God.
    Mandy eased out a slow breath in response to the solemn music. She pulled out a pack of tissues and prepared to suffer. She used one tissue during the soloist’s haunting melody. Two more were soaked when Jeff King’s voice cracked with emotion toward the end of the eulogy, and he struggled to finish.
    When Rob got up to speak, Mandy felt shocked, until he mentioned Tom King’s contributions to the local chamber of commerce. Rob served on the board. His steady voice helped Mandy regain her composure enough so that she only needed one last tissue after the closing prayer. When the service