I’d meant to ask Skip about David’s estranged wife and son. Didn’t investigators always focus on immediate family first? It was possible that either David’s wife or his son was in custody now. I hoped that if that were the case, my man inside the LPPD would certainly alert me and spare me a lot of trouble and anxiety.

I thought of the other one hundred or so alumni who had gathered for the weekend, and the myriad of friends, relatives, and business contacts-Larry Esterman, Rosie’s father, and the rest of the personnel of Callahan and Savage, for example-that David had accumulated over the last thirty years. Any one of them could have had a better motive than those on my personal suspect list.

The awful use of glue brought ugly images that I tried to shuck, but it was a clue that had to be accounted for and didn’t fit with any suspect other than my miniaturist friend.

Here again, I’d have to leave something for the LPPD to do to earn their large salaries.

Miller’s was old school from start to finish, the kind of mortuary I was used to seeing when I lived on the Grand Concourse in the Bronx, but not in sunny California where funeral homes were as likely as not to have skylights. The building was set back from a row of stores along Springfield Boulevard.

Stained-glass windows depicted pastoral scenes, and Gregorian chant from a hidden source greeted the guests as we took our places on Miller’s dark wood pews. Except for the absence of statuary and incense, the room could have passed for the interior of a Catholic church, like those I’d seen when Ken and I toured Italy.

I chose a seat near the back of the room, the better to survey who came and went. Especially Rosie. I flopped my large purse next to me, to save her a seat, though the room could easily have held twice as many as the hundred or so people I estimated to be present.

I admired the floral arrangements surrounding the lectern at the front and wished I’d thought of sending one myself. This was not the official funeral service, I remembered, and there was still time for me to contribute.

I’d picked up a flyer, tasteful, but clearly done in a hurry, with a recent photograph of David Bridges, with his birth and death dates, juxtaposed with the original yearbook photograph and write-up for him: “Our own strong, handsome BMOC, sure to succeed in life as he has on Abraham Lincoln High’s football field.”

A feeling of sadness overtook me, perhaps because of the simple prose or the dejected faces of David’s peers all around me, or because it dawned on me that I hadn’t taken any time to grieve for a former student who died a violent death in my own hometown.

I’d been so busy trying to protect Rosie, first from the disdain of the living David and now from being named his killer, that I’d forgotten who was the real victim.

I hung my head, reflecting and feeling the loss.

During the forty-five-minute service, while I listened to eulogies and sang “Amazing Grace,” I scanned the crowd, looking for Rosie and the other, more worthy suspects.

I spotted the Mellaces, hand in hand a few rows in front of me. It was impossible to tell from their body language that they were anything but a devoted couple. I supposed that Walter and Cheryl might indeed have a happy marriage-on Friday night on the eleventh floor of the Duns Scotus, Cheryl and David might have been playing a friendly game of chess, and today on the sidewalk in front of Scrap’s, Cheryl and Barry might have been talking over old times.

How did Cheryl keep her men straight?

After eulogies from principal Frank Thayer, Coach Robbins, and Barry, we were all invited to share memories of David. Walter Mellace was first up, though he wasn’t even a classmate. He talked about how lucky some of us were to have known David thirty years ago, and how he wished he’d known him.

“So many people, including my wife, spoke so highly of David,” he told us from the lectern.

Walter was brief and made no mention of doing business with David himself. I found the presentation odd, but thought maybe Cheryl asked him to represent the family. Her talents in oratory matched her skill at decorating, I recalled.

We heard from other classmates, with the expected praise of David’s wonderful personality and great loyalty to ALHS even though he no longer lived in Lincoln Point.

I was too far back to see the front row, where I imagined David’s parents were sitting, and perhaps his ex-wife and son. I doubted I’d recognize them but hoped I’d get a chance to offer condolences today or Saturday.

I half expected Rosie to pop up in a front row to proclaim her love of the deceased. I sincerely hoped she wouldn’t.

I didn’t see Skip or any LPPD presence in the hall. Either they were off Rosie’s tail or they’d sent someone I didn’t recognize.

As the program came to a close, I listened for the sound of handcuffs but heard none.

The reception following the service was in a room at the back of the mortuary, a brighter, more airy space with large windows opening onto a neatly manicured lawn.

Miller’s employees were easy to pick out, even among so many men wearing black. They stood at the edges of the crowd, hands behind their backs, earpieces showing. I wondered if they’d been alerted that there might be an arrest on their property this morning.

Barry and I arrived at the doorway together. I was ready.

“How are you holding up, Barry?” I asked him. I expected him to tell me he had an upset stomach. His wouldn’t be the first Scrap’s casualty I’d heard of.

“I’m doing okay, Mrs. Porter. I still can’t believe he’s gone.” Barry seemed genuinely upset, his shoulders slumped and his lips in a downward arc. That could have been from remorse as much as from the grief of an innocent man, I reminded myself. “We go way back, you know. All the way to grade school.”

“And you still had business dealings with him, didn’t you?”

“Sort of.”

I feigned surprise. “I thought it was more than ‘sort of.’ You work for Mellace Construction, right?”

“Uh-huh. I’ve been there a long time.”

“And your company has received a number of contracts lately for work at the Duns Scotus, hasn’t it?” Barry opened his mouth to answer, but I ran on, intending to provoke him if possible. “Networking with friends is always a plus, isn’t it? I mean, for mutual benefit.” I held back on winking, hoping the inflection in my voice carried the message.

Barry squinted at me, as if he was having trouble making the shift to the new topic and to the sarcastic tone of his former, reserved English teacher. “You’ll have to pardon me if business isn’t the first thing on my mind right now,” he said.

“I understand, Barry. I just want to make sense of what happened to David and to figure out who could have done this terrible thing. I’m trying to think of why anyone might want to kill your friend and business colleague.”

It seemed to take a minute for Barry to digest what I was saying. He straightened his shoulders, which kept him still shorter than me, however. “With all due respect, Mrs. Porter, this is probably not the best time for a conversation like this.”

“You’re right. But I value your input, Barry. I wanted to get your opinion also on who might have been sending presents to Rosie Norman, using David’s name.”

Barry’s lips tightened, in anger, I thought, not in sadness this time. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m referring to candy, flowers, a bracelet.” I let that sink in. “Can we set a time to meet?” I asked him.

“I don’t think so.” Barry tugged on his suit jacket, gave his neck a brief roll, and walked away.

On the whole, I wasn’t proud of my first interview. Barry’s response left me as suspicious of him as I had been since Samantha identified him from his updated yearbook photo.