“Did you know Ben was ill?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Booter, I didn’t know you and Ben were close.”

“We weren’t, really. But Ben-well, he was a good man,” he repeated, half to himself. “Better than most.”

I decided to change the subject, finding myself uneasy with a Booter that didn’t bluster.

“Last night, did Allan Moffett ever get around to explaining why he resigned so quickly?”

“No call for that, either,” he said absently. “A man shouldn’t panic.”

“No,” I said, keeping my voice low and coaxing. “And Allan doesn’t scare easily. So he must have had good reason to panic, right?”

“Huh?” he said, sitting up in his chair. I watched one other true emotion cross his face-his horror at speaking to me in an unguarded manner. He recovered quickly. “I’m sorry, I was talking about Ben. Allan had no need to panic. No, no. Allan simply decided to enjoy life, get away from all the hassles. That’s all.”

He was about as forthcoming as a clam with a bad case of tetanus after that. Except for delivering another meaningless and infuriating lecture-on how unduly suspicious the members of the press were-he had nothing to say.

My own jaw started to lock. I managed to mutter a good-bye. His secretary had my coat waiting for me.

I had met with two men who-each using his own style-might have been trying to feed me a load of crap.

A typical day; maybe even better than average.

10

KEENEDAGEmight not have wanted to see me at Ben Watterson’s funeral services, but Roberta Benson made sure she got a seat next to me in the church. The place was fairly packed, and people were still filing in by the dozens. Keene and his friends were already in the crowded front pews, as were my friends Lydia and Guy. But I hadn’t known Ben very well, so I settled for a place near the back.

The high number of “mourners” should have been a tribute to Ben’s power and contributions to the community. But in the course of a few short days, the community’s regard for Ben Watterson had changed. The man whose remains lay in the closed casket at the front of the church had become an enigma, and at least part of the throng was there because his suicide had become the focus of public curiosity. According to the coroner, Ben had no disease.

Why would a man lie in a suicide note? The question had been asked at every lunch table and water-cooler in town. Rumors ran rampant. One was that his widow-hisyoung widow-had somehow managed to kill him for his money. Quiet, withdrawn, and now very, very rich, Claire was a favorite target. Supposedly, she had either done some fancy sneaking in and out of the SOS meeting or hired someone else to kill Ben. The coroner continued to say it was suicide.

Another rumor claimed that the Bank of Las Piernas was on the verge of failing. So far, the bank examiners were declaring it healthy and sound. No financial cancer, either.

It was also speculated that Ben had led a double life, but no one could figure out where he had found the time to lead the second one. And the rumor that some doctor was going to be sued for a mistaken diagnosis was also false-Ben’s doctor hadn’t seen him in over a year. The last visit had been a checkup. Ben had been told he was in fine condition.

The metal casket stood mute before us, as impervious to rumor as it would be to the earth that would soon cover it-while Claire was left to brave more than the elements. Still, it seemed to me that she, too, was encompassed-in a numbing, bewildered grief that allowed her to be absent from all that went on around her.

I moved down the pew to make room for Roberta, thinking her worried look was for the widow. Roberta’s sense of vocation is seldom confined to her office, and I figured she wanted to talk to me about how we could help Claire through the crisis. But Roberta had another friend in mind.

“Have you seen Lucas?” she asked in a whisper.

“No,” I whispered back, leaning to catch a glimpse of Claire from my new position on the pew. “He hasn’t contacted me yet. How’s he doing?”

“I don’t know.”

I turned to her in surprise. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

She leaned a little closer and whispered, “He’s missed two appointments with me. I’m worried. I’m afraid he may be drinking again.”

I thought back to Lucas on the bench, my own hurried judgment of him. “Maybe he has some other reason for missing the appointments.”

“No, you don’t understand,” she said. “I haven’t seen him since I got back into town. He hasn’t reported to his rehab program during the last three days-not once. He’s missed his AA meetings. The shelter told me he hasn’t slept there since Wednesday night.”

“Are they sure? It’s been so cold the last few days. Haven’t they been overcrowded?”

“Yes. They’re sure. They’ve held his place for him as long as they could each night. But he hasn’t checked in. I even looked at the log for the locker room. He hasn’t been to his locker since Wednesday night.”

“Wednesday night? The night of the SOS meeting?”

“Yes. I guess I was too optimistic about him.”

I felt myself bristle. “You said he was doing well, was on the mend.”

She sat back a little, then said in a low voice-each word enunciated as if English were not my native language-“He was. But when you’ve been in my line of work long enough, you learn that nothing is very certain when it comes to substance abuse recovery.”

“This isn’t about your line of work,” I hissed. “This is about Lucas Monroe. A human being. You said-”

“Keep your voice down!” She looked toward Claire, then went on. “I said seeing you really made a difference, and I never should have said a word to you about him.” I knew the look on her face. Every reporter has seen it a million times. It was the whoops-I’ve-told-you-too-much look. The look that always follows it is one you can see on a mule. “If he hadn’t asked me to say hello to you,” she went on peevishly, “I wouldn’t have mentioned him to you. It came very close to breaking a professionally privileged confidence-”

“Cram your professional confidence!” I snapped, only to realize that I had spoken loudly enough to cause heads to turn. A lady in front of me scowled so hard I was afraid she’d never get her face straightened out again.

I was ashamed to notice that even Claire had been disturbed by my voice; she was looking toward us. In the next moment her heretofore blank gaze seemed to focus on me, and her brows drew together. I mouthed an apology, but she leaned over to the woman who sat next to her, an older person who sat between Claire and her sister. From the back, I could only see gray hair and a broad back stretching a dark dress. The lady glanced over her shoulder at me, holding the corner of her glasses as she peered over the rims. She nodded, rose, and moved slowly toward us. She was an apple-shaped woman, a wonder of balance as she trod carefully in her sensible shoes.

Oh hell, I thought, this old biddy is going to scold me and ask me to leave.

In the next moment, I decided that would be a blessing. The growing crowd made the air in the church steadily more stuffy, and my desire to escape the room had grown proportionately. I was angry with Roberta, probably unreasonably, which only made me more anxious to evade the “closure” she would undoubtedly seek. And, as will happen at funerals, I selfishly remembered those friends and family members I had lost over the years, and fought hard to prevent each shard of old grief from piercing whatever get-on-with-life barrier I had built around it.

Roberta seemed to think the lady was approaching her, but the woman bent over and laid a cool, paper-dry hand on my wrist. Roberta leaned back to avoid smothering in the woman’s pillowy, ample bosom. I heard a lovely drawl when the lady said, “I’m Claire’s Aunt Emeline. Forgive me for disturbing you, sugar, but Claire wondered if you might be willing to please come up and sit beside her. You will, won’t you?”