Free House of Secrets - v4 by Richard Hawke Page B

to upper twenties, with short bangs, thick dark eyebrows, and a quite complicated pair of eyeglasses, architecturally speaking. The eyewear seemed to be a statement, though Smallwood wasn’t sure what the statement was. She was an odd duck. There was an anxious quality coming off her. Smallwood could practically smell it. Her small, pouty mouth was drenched in fire-engine-red lipstick, and behind her mad glasses her eyes seemed to be in continuous motion, deliberately surveying the other people in the room in much the way Smallwood was doing. Smallwood moved away from the wall and traveled slowly around the room, purposefully passing several times near the woman. Each time he sensed her roving eyes landing on him, he felt as if her gaze was crawling over him like worms.
    Fascinating.
     
     
    I t was raining like mad. Despite the tarp affixed over the mound of earth next to Joy’s grave, the pounding rain was having its way. Streams of chocolate-colored mud ran freely into the waiting grave.
    A dozen folding chairs had been set up under a white canopy, sitting unevenly on the lumpy Astroturf carpet. Smallwood sat awkwardly in his chair, his legs overflowing the small plastic seat. He would have preferred to stand out in the rain, but Aunt Judy wanted him under the canopy, next to his grandmother. Doris Smallwood, in her early eighties and nearly as large as Robert, sat silent and sour through the entire service. If Smallwood felt like a giant in the wobbly chair, he suspected his grandmother did as well. The elderly woman lived alone upstate and didn’t have much to do with the family these days. By all appearances, being forced to come down to attend her granddaughter’s funeral hadn’t done much to warm her heart up toward her kin.
    At the conclusion of the service, Smallwood’s aunt rose from her chair and was guided across the lumpy ground by her son, Jeffrey, who handed her the rose she was to place on Joy’s casket. Smallwood’s eyes had remained glued on Our Lady of the Funky Glasses, who was standing along the edge of the gathering, staring a hole through the casket. The rain running off her umbrella reminded Smallwood of a curtain of cheap plastic beads. As he sat watching, a man stepped up unnoticed behind the woman, ducking past the rain-bead curtain and joining her under the umbrella. He was of medium height and weight and was wearing a knee-length olive-green coat and a brown floppy-brimmed hat pulled down low on his head.
    Smallwood’s whiskers twitched.
    The man had whispered something into the woman’s ear. She went rigid. Even behind her cagey lenses, the fear that came into the woman’s eyes was evident. The man continued to speak softly into her ear. Smallwood was certain the man must have told her not to turn around, but to remain facing forward. Was this
him?
Smallwood looked for signs of his handiwork on the man’s skull, but the hat was pulled down too far. Whoever he was, he seemed to have a lot to say. Aunt Judy had completed her rose tribute and Jeffrey was guiding her back to her chair. Smallwood had to shift in his seat to maintain his view of the curious couple. The way the man was keeping his eyes trained on the side of the woman’s face looked as if he wanted to see what her reaction was to his words. The woman nodded once. And then a second time. This seemed to be the desired response. He reached up with his hand and touched her lightly on the cheek, then backed away and disappeared into the light mist.
    The heavens opened up even more. The crazy beating of the rain on the canopy was like machine-gun fire. So was Robert Smallwood’s heartbeat.
     
     
    T he general movement toward the cars was swift. The priest came under the canopy and began his condolences to the family. Cousin Jeffrey had a hand on Smallwood’s arm and was babbling something incoherent about Smallwood’s parents, both of whom had been dead for years and were buried just several feet away, beneath a black