Free Where Nobody Dies by Carolyn Wheat Page B

there was a genuine reverence in her bowed head and respectful gaze. Her expression was unreadable; between her high-fashion makeup and enormous tinted glasses, she was inscrutable as a mannequin. Once past the coffin, Art took her arm and led her past Marcy and Dawn, where he murmured a few words and received a gracious nod from Marcy. Dawn, however, stared straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge his presence. In any other context it would have been deliberate rudeness; here it could be put down to sorrow.
    I was still watching the Lucentis when I heard somebody say the name “Ira.” I turned to see a slight, balding man approaching the coffin. I stared in disbelief. This was the King Slumlord? This was the man whose goons and torches had terrorized whole neighborhoods? He looked like an accountant with ulcers. He looked like Maude’s husband. He looked, I finally decided, like the voice on the tape.
    Then I saw him peer down into the coffin. I was standing at just the right angle to see his profile. He pursed his lips ever so slightly, and I saw droplets fall into the casket. Ira Bellfield, blackmail victim, had just spit on the dead body of Linda Ritchie. Another line of Edna’s came to me. “Brought to earth the arrogant brow,” I recited to myself, “and the withering tongue/chastened. Do your weeping now.” Dirge for a dead blackmailer.
    What happened next I saw first as a flash of blue. It took me a moment to realize that what I was looking at were two uniformed corrections officers and, between them, handcuffed, stood Brad Ritchie.
    A funeral order. It had to be. Impossible as it may seem, some lawyer had actually secured the court’s permission for a man accused of his wife’s murder to attend her funeral.
    My only thought was for Dawn. Brad Ritchie apparently agreed. Passing the coffin without a glance, he headed straight for the first pew. The officers were hard put to keep up with his pace. Strain as I might, I could hear nothing of his conversation with Dawn. I saw his mouth work with the effort of keeping his tears back, and I saw him shake his head. Dawn reached out to him, only to have her arms virtually slapped back by one of the officers. Marcy turned sharply on him, and both officers hustled Brad away. Dawn turned a white, tearstained face in his direction, following him with her eyes. Then Dawn fell into the pew, head in hands, sobbing. Gone was her grown-up poise. Marcy stood protectively next to her niece, her hand poised over her shoulder, yet not touching the black suit jacket.
    Then I saw Button. He was in the back pew, a smile of anticipation on his face. However Brad had come to the funeral, I reasoned, it was not against Button’s wishes. And I thought I was a ghoul! Listening to Dawn’s subsiding sobs, I felt a moment of pure hatred for Button. He had once done the same thing to me, treating me with little kindness after Nathan’s death, just to see what my anger might produce. I’d long since forgiven him for that, recognizing the motive behind the cruelty. But this was different—he had his suspect, and it was a child he was hurting. I gave him a venomous look and got a subdued smirk in response. Button knew what he was doing all right!
    After the service, people stood next to cars, deciding how to get to the gravesite. I had no car, so I waited, considering a cab. Button came up behind me. “Want a ride, Counselor?” he asked blandly.
    â€œHow could you—” I began, then stopped in mid-fury when I realized how predictable I was being.
    â€œWe can talk about it in the car,” he said, as though the matter were settled. Which it was; I needed the ride, and I was determined to get a few things off my chest. I opened the passenger door to the white Audi he indicated was his.
    â€œI can’t believe you did that,” I said coldly, “to a kid , for God’s sake. What are you, anyway?”
    The answer came