style="font-size:15px;"> She glanced around to see if the owner of the limo might be walking their way, but all she saw was a group of uniformed drivers standing smoking under a tree in the far corner of the lot.
“Friend of Mrs. Marchant, then?”
Kate turned her head. He was almost her height, making the top of his glistening forehead about even with her nose. His face was tilted up, allowing a brief glimpse of trickles of sweat dripping off the folds of skin beneath his chin. Kate looked away.
“Guess I’ll see if one of those drivers can move the car,” she said, moving off, hoping to put some distance between herself and the man.
But he followed. “Were you a close friend of Mrs. Marchant’s?”
The way he used her married name told Kate he wasn’t exactly Joanna’s bosom buddy, either. She stopped and turned toward him. “No, I wasn’t. Why are you asking?”
“Just curious about why you came to the funeral.”
Kate narrowed her eyes at him. “And what business is that of yours?”
He’d taken a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and was now mopping his forehead with it. “Guess I should have identified myself. Sergeant Tom Andrews, Westchester County Police.” He started to extend the arm holding the handkerchief, then apparently thought better of it.
The introduction didn’t exactly warm Kate to him. Instead, she wondered why he’d taken so long to get around to it. “And?” she prompted in her best schoolteacher voice.
He straightened at her tone, tucking away the handkerchief and digging in his jacket pocket for his badge. Kate scarcely had a glimpse of it before it was stowed away again. “Just making a few inquiries of the funeral guests, that’s all, Miss…?”
“Reilly. Kate Reilly. Is it customary for the police to attend the funeral of a suicide victim?”
He seemed to look at her with new interest. “Police like to get information on any death where there are unusual circumstances.”
A calm stillness settled over her while a tiny voice inside whispered, I knew it! I knew it! “And…what are the unusual circumstances around Joanna Barnes’s death?”
He frowned. “Sorry, I can’t get into the details. What exactly was your connection to Mrs. Marchant, or Miss Barnes?”
“I met her when I was a young girl. We haven’t seen each other in nineteen years, but she corresponded.”
“She ever talk about being depressed? Suicidal feelings?”
Kate bit down on her lower lip and shook her head. After she’d managed to regain control of her voice, she said, “No. We…uh, we weren’t close enough for her to talk about things like that.”
He kept his eyes on her, nodding his head thoughtfully. “I see. Okay. Well, thank you very much, Miss Reilly. How about if I find out which one of those guys over there belongs to the limo blocking your car? I’ve got to talk to them, anyway.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it,” Kate murmured, his question still pounding in her ears. She ever talk about being depressed? If only Joanna had written about her personal life more, rather than elaborate on information Kate had already gleaned from newspapers and magazines.
Then what, Reilly? Think your knowing her better would have prevented Joanna from killing herself? She closed her eyes. The small voice inside her was shouting yes! yes! No matter how hard she’d tried over the past few days, she couldn’t shake the thought that she might have had some influence over Joanna had she known her better.
“Sure you don’t want that glass of water?”
Kate jumped.
“Easy. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I thought you saw me coming.”
Kate squinted. He was standing with the sun behind him, and at first she didn’t recognize him. Then she caught his reference to water and managed a weak smile. The man from the church. “Thanks, but I’m all right. I was…lost in my thoughts.”
He stepped out of the sun to join her in the patch of shade. “Need a lift anywhere?”
“I have a car, but thanks, anyway.” Remembering the police officer, she turned her head to peer around his shoulder toward the limo drivers across the lot. Sure enough, she saw one of them talking to the officer. Then the driver sauntered toward the limo parked in front of her car.
“The black limo?” he asked, following her gaze.
Kate had to smile. “No. The white Escort behind it.”
“Aah. I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself sooner,” he said. “Matt Sinclair.” He extended a hand.
Kate placed her hand in his. “Kate Reilly.”
“A friend, but not a close one,” he added. She smiled again. “Yes. You were a friend of Joanna’s?”
“I knew her,” he said, finally letting go of her hand. “Family connection.”
He was being vague and Kate couldn’t understand why. Instinctively she stepped back, taking a second, longer look at Matt Sinclair. Unlike the policeman, he seemed cool and unperturbed by the sweltering heat. Everything about him spelled good grooming, from the cut of his lightweight summer suit to the plain silk tie knotted unobtrusively at the throat of a crisp white shirt. Grooming, she thought, and money, too. One of those limos in the lot probably belonged to him. His thick black hair was perfectly trimmed, and his eyes, still fixed on hers, were definitely gray. But not a cold gray, she thought, recalling how they’d looked in the church. Now they seemed to flicker with specks of color. Or was that glint amusement, instead?
“Do I pass?” he asked.
Kate looked away. She was certain her face had reddened, and not from the heat. “So you’re related to Joanna, after all. You mentioned a family connection?”
He folded his arms across his chest and stared across the parking lot. Kate turned her head, too, watching the black limo roll into another place. He shifted his attention back to her and mumbled, “By marriage.”
“By marriage?” she repeated. “A cousin or something?”
He shook his head. “She was married to my father.” He paused, fixing his eyes on hers. “For two years.”
“When?”
“Eighteen years ago. I was seventeen at the time. Pretty much out of the picture. Thank God,” he muttered bitterly.
“Obviously you didn’t care for Joanna,” she said.
“Frankly, no. Sorry if that offends you.”
Kate inhaled deeply. She hadn’t come to Joanna’s funeral for any kind of confrontation. All she’d wanted to do was to quietly mourn and pay her last respects to someone she’d met and liked.
“I do—did—care for Joanna,” she said, “and I don’t believe in speaking ill of the dead. Especially
