Читать книгу Tommy's Mom - Linda Johnston O. - Страница 11

“Oh, Holly, you poor thing. I want you to know, the whole town is nearly as devastated as you about Thomas’s death.” Evangeline Sevvers breezed into the funeral parlor’s small anteroom off the front of the chapel.

Evangeline would be aware of what the whole town felt, Holly Poston thought wryly. In addition to owning a boutique down the pedestrian mall from Sheldon Sperling’s arts and crafts gallery, she was mayor of Naranja Beach, California.

Holly had been waiting in the small room for the memorial service for her husband to begin. Sad, numb, scared—those were emotions she applied to herself for the loss of Thomas and the turmoil from the circumstances surrounding his death.

Devastated…not really. Not yet, at least.

She glanced down toward her son Tommy, at her feet. He looked at Evangeline, but quickly resumed playing with a toy car on the floor.

His hair, as dark a brown as Holly’s, had been neatly parted and combed to the side a few minutes ago, but now it was mussed. She would undoubtedly have to brush dirt off his black dress pants, maybe off his white shirt, too, but Holly was thankful that Tommy was acting like a normal child…almost.

He hadn’t said a word for the past four days.

“Wait until you see how many people are here to pay their respects to Thomas.” Evangeline’s enthusiasm sparkled in her eyes.

“That’s great,” Holly replied, a lot less excited.

Evangeline, ever the politician, would be pleased for a throng anyplace she happened to be. Evangeline was also a good friend. A consummate professional woman, she almost always wore a suit—at least while not in costume, for she was a driving force and starring actress at the Naranja Community Theater. Today, she wore a tailored deep cranberry suit that should have clashed with the dyed shade of her red hair but somehow didn’t.

“You’ll see for yourself soon,” Evangeline continued. “Right now, though, I want to introduce you to someone.”

Oh, lord, Holly thought. Not yet. She’d brought Tommy here early, before anyone else arrived, to protect him from the polite verbal poking and prodding of other mourners. And the not-so-polite intrusion of the media. As a result, she had avoided them, too. She would have to face them eventually. Probably soon. But she had to prepare herself.

Before she could object, a man entered the room behind Evangeline.

“Holly, this is the new police chief of Naranja Beach, Gabe McLaren. Gabe told me he hadn’t met you yet.”

No wonder Evangeline wanted to introduce them personally, Holly thought, as a very tall man entered behind the mayor, practically filling the small room by himself. He was a relative of Evangeline’s, or so Holly had heard.

Chief McLaren wore a navy blue suit and a conservative tie. Could his shoulders and chest be as vast as indicated by his clothing, or had he worn body armor to a funeral?

He had a wide forehead, and his thick brown hair was cut short in a military style, parted on the side and combed off his face. His jaw was an expanse of steel, his mouth an earnest line beneath a strong and even nose.

“I’m sorry about your loss, Mrs. Poston,” he said, holding out his hand.

I should say the same to you, Holly’s thoughts rang sardonically. She knew from long and sorry experience that cops only cared about other cops, and their duty.

This man had lost one of his officers in a crime still unsolved. He was in charge of a police force with a blemish on its record, at least so far—an unenviable position for a police chief.

She accepted his proffered handshake and said, “Thank you.” She knew she wasn’t being fair. Sometimes crimes were solved quickly, sometimes they took a while. But a cop had been downed. The Naranja Beach Police Department wouldn’t rest until they knew exactly what had happened that misty morning in Sheldon Sperling’s shop.

And if, along the way, they learned who beat Sheldon unconscious and traumatized her small son so much that he wouldn’t speak, that would be an added benefit to them.

To her, it was a prerequisite for getting on with her life.

Chief McLaren was still holding her hand. She wanted to pull it away but found this stranger’s grip oddly comforting.

Never mind that what she knew about him wasn’t favorable. She had heard Thomas and his partner Al Sharp discuss the new chief hired three months ago after the sudden death of the former chief, Mal Kensington, from an unexpected heart attack. Nepotism, Thomas and Al had complained, since McLaren was a distant relation of the mayor’s. Sure, he had police administration experience, but he was too young to be seasoned. He had an attitude, made it clear he would run things his own way, never mind that things had run just fine under old Mal Kensington.

Chief McLaren continued to grip her hand, and his green eyes, beneath thick, unruly brows, bored into hers.

“Mrs. Poston,” he said, “I want you to know—”

“Hi, Tommy, my lad. And Holly. Chief McLaren, Mayor Sevvers… May I come in?”

Holly moved so she could see the anteroom’s doorway. Sheldon Sperling stood there.

Sheldon was one of Holly’s oldest friends. The pallor of his face nearly matched the whiteness of the sling he wore to support his right arm. He was only sixty-one years old, but the wrinkles around his eyes and the hollows in his soft cheeks had deepened over the past four days, making him appear a decade or more older. He had gone through a lot, poor man.

“Sure, come in, Sheldon,” Holly said uncertainly. She wasn’t sure where he would fit.

“I’ll talk to you later, Mrs. Poston,” Chief McLaren told her, releasing her hand. It felt suddenly empty.

Watch it! she admonished herself. She wasn’t going to be one of those widows who clutched at anyone and anything to avoid feeling alone. And certainly not a stranger.

“I’ll go with you, Gabe,” Evangeline said. “See you in a bit, Holly.”

As they left, Sheldon squeezed by them into the anteroom. He moved slowly, easing himself down on an upholstered chair facing the floral print sofa where Holly sat. He looked gaunt in his black suit.

She hadn’t much black in her own wardrobe, but she had put on the next best thing: a short charcoal skirt with a lace-trimmed blouse several shades lighter. She’d had to belt the outfit tightly at the waist. She had lost weight in the past few days. She hadn’t been able to eat.

“How are you feeling now, Sheldon?” Holly asked softly.

“Much better. The headaches are almost gone, and I can move my wrist a little now. And you? How are you two getting along?”

Terribly! Holly wanted to shout, but of course she couldn’t. Not with Tommy there. “Tommy has been a very good, very brave boy,” she said. “And he has been a real comfort to me.”

At least that wasn’t a lie. She wasn’t sure what she would have done without her son to keep her going. For despite all that had happened between Thomas and her, all the anger and bitterness and even indifference, she had never anticipated—had refused to anticipate, despite his being a cop—that she would finally lose him this way.

And that it would hurt so much.

“I’m sure Tommy has been a big help,” Sheldon agreed. “He certainly helped me.”

Holly shot a warning look toward Sheldon. She didn’t want to remind Tommy of that terrible morning any more than she had to, not right now.

Holly wasn’t sure how much Tommy had seen, and that frightened her even more. He hadn’t told her. He had been taken to the hospital that morning and examined, then released. Physically, he was fine. But after consulting with a child psychologist, she hadn’t allowed the police to interrogate him. Not yet. She had, however, permitted her husband’s partner Al, whom Tommy knew, to visit while off duty and ask a few simple questions. Tommy hadn’t answered.

Soon she would do everything necessary to get him to talk about what happened, for only then would her small son begin to heal. But for now, they had to get through Thomas’s funeral.

Sheldon nodded his understanding, just as the door opened once more. It was Evangeline. “I hate to bother you again, Holly, but there are so many people here who want to express condolences in person. I know it’s usually done after the service, but would you mind coming out for a little while?” Evangeline was engaging in her primary role in life: organizing, making certain things ran smoothly.

Holly hesitated. Maybe it would be better to get it over with. Yet if she greeted them now… She glanced down at Tommy.

Evangeline obviously got the message. “Do you know what?” she said brightly. “Edie’s out here, and she really wants to go for a walk. Do you think Tommy might want to keep her company? She doesn’t want to go by herself.”

“What do you think, Tommy?” Holly asked. “Can Aunt Edie take you for a walk?”

Edie Bryerly was Holly’s closest friend. A couple of years younger than Holly, she was the ultimate bohemian in this seaside town full of individualists, notwithstanding her mundane job at City Hall as a secretary in the Planning Department. She often baby-sat for Tommy.

Tommy turned on the floor and looked toward Holly, small brow furrowed as if he considered this request carefully—the fear caused by his terrible experience obviously outweighing everything else, even his love for Edie. When her son finally rose, Holly had her answer.

Evangeline ducked out of the small room, and in a minute Edie came in. She was very tall and very curvaceous. Today, she was clad conservatively, for her, in a leotard top and abbreviated green skirt. Though the short pixie style of her platinum hair emphasized that her nose was too large for the rest of her features, it somehow made her appear stunning.

“I hear I’ve got some good company in here ready to come for a walk with me,” Edie said. “Is it…Mr. Sperling?”

Tommy shook his head in the negative.

“Is it…Mommy?”

Again her son shook his head, and Holly smiled.

“Well, then, it must be Tommy!”

This time he nodded and smiled. But he still didn’t speak.

It’ll come in time, Holly told herself. She hoped.

“Please keep him in the garden,” she told Edie. The funeral home had a secluded garden for the family of the bereaved. Their privacy was maintained by high, thick hedges. No one would bother them there.

After Edie and Tommy went through the exit into the garden, Evangeline, at the doorway to the chapel, motioned to Holly.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to do this just because Evangeline told you to,” Sheldon whispered into her ear. “It’s not normal protocol. People will understand.” He probably hadn’t spoken aloud out of fear he’d be royally reprimanded by Her Honor, the Mayor.

But he had managed to contradict her nonetheless, and Holly smiled at him fondly. “It’s okay. I’ll be fine. But thanks.” She felt the warmth and comfort of having friends around in this very difficult time. She appreciated them all. A lot.

Thomas’s parents had died years ago in a car accident. Her own family hadn’t come to the funeral. They lived a thousand miles away in Chicago. Her mother, recuperating from pneumonia, was too ill to travel. Her father had made appropriate noises about needing to stay home to take care of his ailing wife. Holly knew better. What her mother said—and didn’t say—made it clear her father, a long-time detective with the Chicago Police Department, hadn’t made time to come. He was on yet another big case. Holly wasn’t surprised by his absence, but it still hurt.

Holly figured she should muster her courage, square her shoulders and march into the chapel like a brave trooper. After all, most of the people out there who waited to greet her were troopers. Cops. As Thomas had been. As her father was.

But she wasn’t. Still, letting her overwrought emotions hang out like freshly washed underwear on a towel rack would only embarrass her in the long run. She was expected to take it.

For now, she would do what she could to meet those expectations.

After all, she was the widow of a cop.

“I CAN’T TELL YOU how sorry I am, Holly,” said Al Sharp. He was dressed in his blue uniform. Al was about forty years old, and he had an extra chin despite how lean his body remained. His hairline had receded, and what was left was cut into a stubble. He had delivered the news about Thomas’s death, for he had been his partner. He had also come to see her the next evening and talk to Tommy.

“I know, Al,” she said. She stood at the front of the large, high-ceilinged chapel, near where Thomas’s closed casket lay on a bower surrounded by huge flower arrangements. The luscious, vibrant aroma of once-living blossoms whose lives had been cut short to mourn her husband’s death wrapped around Holly and choked her. She wondered vaguely if she would ever be able to work in her own garden again.

Behind Al, other cops lined up to pay their respects to her. Lots of cops—men and women. Maybe hundreds, certainly more than the entire Naranja Beach force. Some stood in the chapel’s center aisle and others at the sides before the stained glass windows. She recognized a few, but most she didn’t. Some were in different uniforms, indicating they had come from other jurisdictions to salute a fallen comrade. Some wore suits, signifying they were detectives, not patrol officers.

No cameras, at least none that she could see. Maybe the reporters who had hounded her since Thomas’s death were somehow intimidated by such a large showing of law enforcement, but she doubted it. Wouldn’t it instead act as a magnet to them?

She swallowed hard. Could she take this? There were so many people. And despite her resolve to show only courage, she wasn’t certain she could continue….

Chief Gabe McLaren joined them. “Mrs. Poston.” He took her hand once more and shook it, as if in greeting. But he had shaken her hand before. “May I talk with you for just a second? I need to tell you what I started to say earlier.”

She had the impression that what he intended to communicate was private, yet they were in the midst of a flood of people. Shouldn’t he wait until later? But he obviously didn’t want to delay it.

He was the chief of police. He had been her husband’s superior. Courtesy dictated that she not brush him off. And he clearly wasn’t about to leave her alone until he’d had his say.

She looked up at him, waiting for him to speak.

“I want you to know something, Mrs. Poston.”

“What’s that?” She didn’t exactly feel comfortable held in his unyielding grip, the subject of his frank stare, but she didn’t pull away.

“I’ve instructed the entire Naranja Beach Police Force to do two things. First, to find out exactly what happened to Officer Thomas Poston and bring his killer to justice.”

That was no less than what she had expected. Another stanza of the same old song she had heard sung throughout her life, first as the daughter of a police officer, then as the wife of one: cops take care of their own.

He continued, “Second, everyone on the force is your family, and they’re to treat you as such. Myself included. Every need of the wife and son of a fallen officer will be taken care of, I promise. Anything you want, anything bothering you, just let me know. House or car repairs, gardening, you name it.”

Sure, Holly had heard that was supposed to happen. Other cops’ wives had told her so. The spouses even had a coalition to share mutual concerns. She’d gone to some of their meetings. A bunch were here to show support—including, she’d been told, representatives of a national group for widows of fallen law enforcement officers.

Plus, a collection might be taken up for her. She would want to refuse their check, no matter how kindly it was meant, but she wouldn’t because of Tommy. Thomas had left insurance and sales of her artwork would help, so she wouldn’t need to get a job at least until Tommy was in school. Still, she wanted to start a college fund for Tommy.

But in her experience, anything more—anything requiring more than a check and an occasional visit from the cops themselves—was just another unsubstantiated urban legend, which was fine with her.

Yet Chief McLaren’s gaze was so straightforward that it shouted of sincerity. He meant every word he said. Didn’t he? And if so…

She had sudden disquieting visions of cops everywhere, well-meaning but underfoot, not allowing Tommy and her to get on with their lives.

And that, she was certain, would include Chief Gabe McLaren—perhaps the most disquieting of them all.

HE WASN’T her family. He didn’t even know her. But to emphasize his words, the show of support he’d offered, Gabe took his place beside Holly Poston in the makeshift receiving line.

He caught her sideways, questioning glance—like, who was he to hang around her?

“I know there’re a lot of people here, Mrs. Poston,” he said. “They all want to say how sorry they are for your loss. If you don’t feel like talking to any of them, you don’t have to. I’ll thank them for you. Or you can wait till later, after the service. Just let me know. We’ve already excluded the media from the chapel.”

She faced him directly, her expression surprised and, if he read it right, outraged at his audacity. But then it softened. She even managed a small, tight smile. “Thanks, Chief McLaren.”

“Call me Gabe,” he said. She nodded in acknowledgment.

Sure, it was damned presumptuous for him to stand here with her, but his presence emphasized a message he’d already communicated to his own officers: we’re all members of the same family, and families stick together.

Holly Poston appeared exhausted, with dark circles beneath her stunningly doelike brown eyes. She was most definitely a beautiful brunette. Her hair was a shade of brown he’d describe as deepest, darkest chocolate. It was cut unevenly in a becoming style, longer in back, swept away slightly to show her ears, and fringed along her forehead. Her eyebrows were an even darker shade, arched but not plucked thin the way so many women did. Her mouth was full and lush, moist-looking despite the fact she wore no lipstick. Her cheekbones—well, he’d never really noticed cheekbones much, but he noticed hers. They helped to add definition to the oval shape of her face.

All in all, she was a stunningly beautiful lady despite the pain so obvious in her eyes.

Thomas Poston had been a lucky man—until someone had stabbed him to death four days ago.

Poston was the first police officer lost during Gabe’s tenure as chief, though he wasn’t the only one whose death had been suspicious lately. Gabe hoped Poston would be the last, but he, of all people, knew exactly how dangerous being a cop could be. Even in an area as laid back as Naranja Beach.

He didn’t know whether Poston had been murdered because he was a cop, but Gabe sure as hell would find out.

REVEREND MILLER had appeared. It was time for the funeral service to begin.

“Excuse me,” Holly said. “I have to get my son.” A small sense of relief passed through her at this perfectly logical reason to flee not only the continuing parade of well-wishers but also the presence of this intense and disturbing man.

This man who wasn’t merely a cop, but a leader of cops.

Who had made it clear he intended to inflict more cops on her, in the name of helping her.

The kind of help she really needed required that she never again, for the rest of her life, see a policeman.

“Of course,” he replied. “I’ll come with you.”

“That’s all right,” she said quickly. “I can—” But he took her elbow and began politely bulldozing a path through the crowd toward the door from which she had previously emerged.

She should despise his take-charge attitude. And yet, for this moment, at least, it felt good to have someone deal with the crowd on her behalf.

She’d been handling ninety percent of the things in her life and Tommy’s by herself for quite a while now. There was time enough for her to learn to deal with the other ten percent alone.

But perhaps she should just let Tommy stay outside during the memorial service. She knew Edie would continue to watch him, for her friend was like a second mother to her son. He was so young, after all. The funeral wouldn’t bring any closure to someone so unknowledgeable about what it was supposed to mean. And although Holly had checked with the child psychologist and been given the go-ahead, she wondered if it was a good idea to have him here after what he’d gone through.

Still, whatever he experienced here might allow him in the future to deal with his father’s death better. Thomas was about to be given a hero’s sendoff. That might help little Tommy remember his daddy. Whatever else Thomas had been, he had been a good cop.

Chief Gabe McLaren’s vast shoulders appeared to shrink the size of the already small waiting room once more as he led her through it and outside the door to the adjoining garden. There, Edie was pointing to something on a flower. As Holly drew closer, she saw it was a butterfly.

Tommy was laughing, and Holly felt herself smile in response. It was the first laughter she had heard from her son since that awful morning four days earlier. She soaked it in as if she was the butterfly, and the sound was the nectar from the loveliest of blossoms.

Edie looked toward her, and their eyes met. “It’s time,” Holly mouthed. Edie’s nod didn’t dislodge one hair in her short pixie hairdo, and she stood.

Even as tall as her friend was, she still seemed almost petite compared with Gabe McLaren. Edie clearly noticed, for she smiled up at the chief from beneath flirtatiously lowered lashes and held out her hand. “Hi,” she said, and introduced herself.

“Hi,” Chief McLaren said in return. He extracted his hand from Edie’s and extended it to Tommy. “I saw you before, but we didn’t get a chance to talk. You’re Tommy, aren’t you? I’m Chief McLaren. Your dad and I worked together.”

Tommy’s smile faded. He regarded the large man with huge, solemn eyes. He held out his small hand that was dwarfed by Gabe McLaren’s much greater one and received the polite handshake in an adult manner that nearly made Holly cry.

Holly couldn’t help liking the way Gabe hadn’t diminished Thomas in his son’s eyes by stating the truth: that his daddy had worked for him.

“It’s time to go inside, Tommy,” Gabe said. “Is that all right with you?”

Tommy nodded, still not speaking, not even to another man. But of course this man was a stranger. Holly took her son’s hand and together they walked toward the chapel. She didn’t look to see if anyone followed. She knew Edie would, and most likely Gabe McLaren would, too. Maybe she shouldn’t leave the flirtatious Edie behind. She certainly didn’t want her best friend to wind up involved with a cop.

What was she thinking? This wasn’t a singles bar. Edie and the chief weren’t here to make small talk to one another. This was a funeral. Thomas’s funeral. And Chief McLaren was probably already married.

Holly felt sorry for his wife…didn’t she?

They went through the door from the small waiting room into the chapel. The minister stood at the front of the room at the pulpit overlooking the closed casket and its surrounding garden of aromatic, dying flowers.

Holly took a deep breath as a thick lump formed in her throat. She somehow had to get through this.

The seats right beside the door where they entered were all occupied by police officers. As Tommy and she entered, everyone stood. A sea of uniforms surrounded them.

And suddenly, unexpectedly, Tommy began to scream.