CHAPTER ELEVEN: An Honorable Woman
Most of the people at Cynthia’s memorial service didn’t seem sad, but rather surprisingly indifferent. She had been a prankster, perhaps even a bit wild and free, but her behavior didn’t warrant this much apathy.
Her parents, Dr. and Mrs. Calvin Maxwell, were the only ones who seemed genuinely broken up by the loss. Cynthia had been their only child, which had been unfortunate since Calvin adored children and wanted to have many. Perhaps he had been depending on Cynthia to provide him with a passel of grandchildren someday.
Despite most people’s lack of interest, they did manage to make a fine showing. It was obvious, however, that the vast majority of them had to be there. Sure Cynthia had done things that had gotten under Blair’s skin, but he was happy to say that he had put that all behind him. The woman was dead, and showing an hour’s worth of respect for her didn’t seem like too much to ask for.
Vanessa came in and sat three rows in front of Blair. She saw him as she walked by and gave him a fleeting smile, but elected to sit alone. It was just as well; he wouldn’t have been very good company, anyway.
Johnny DeMario was five rows in front. When he glanced over his shoulder and spotted Blair, his mouth dropped open and his eyes bugged. His surprise soon folded into an easy contentment. It probably amazed him to see Blair cleaned up and wearing an elegant, three-piece suit. Even his nails were clean, and he had used shampoo to wash his hair instead of a bar of soap. The difference was amazing; his hair no longer felt like chicken wire and had been much easier to manage. The only drawback was the shoes he wore; Thomas’s feet were a size eleven, but Blair’s were twelves. That slim difference was killing his feet and by tomorrow, he would be paying the price.
Johnny kept looking back at Blair with a big grin on his face. He waved once, just to be sure Blair saw him. If Johnny hadn’t been sitting with his wife, he would have joined him.
Dr. Jeremy Driscall was on Blair’s left, looking as dashing as ever. The woman beside him could best be described as a raven-haired beauty. To the right, Detective Smitty stared at the casket as if he found it an annoyance. Smitty was a dark man with jet-black hair cut crew style. One of his heavyset legs was sticking out from the pew. His small ears made his head look twice as big as it was; his face seemed to stretch out infinitely.
Smith jerked his head once to the side as if to shake himself awake, his jowls dancing and drawing attention away from that small, pencil-point nose of his and those thick lips just glistening with saliva. Around went his tongue to moisten them again.
The makeup was so thick on Cynthia’s face that she was barely recognizable. Forget about the freckles. Still, the director and his staff had done wonders to cover up the cuts around her head and neck. Even so, she would’ve been dismayed to see herself looking so drab. Scarlet lipstick and magenta nail polish would’ve been much more to her liking.
A few distinguished yet aloof-looking gents got up and said things like “Dr. Maxwell was an honorable woman with skills beyond most in her profession,” and “she will be sadly missed,” and “the world will be a much emptier place without her in it,” and so on. It would’ve been touching if it had been believable.
After the service, the crowd stood around and talked for awhile, and then dispersed one by one. Blair sat forward in his seat, laid one hand over the other against the back of the chair in front of him, and struck a position of prayer. He hoped to be overlooked and for the most part, he was. After all, he hadn’t been clean-shaven and dressed up in months, and lots of folks he knew didn’t even recognize him. And that was just fine with him; he had a job to do and not much time to do it.
Someone touched him on the shoulder, so he looked up. Calvin’s wife Corinne had laid a hand on him, one which sported a gorgeous, ten-carat ruby with a dozen or so quarter-carat diamonds surrounding it. Corinne wasn’t falling apart, but Blair could tell that she was genuinely saddened by her daughter’s passing. Her eyes were blue-green, like a robin’s egg, and framed inside exquisite, brown-rimmed bifocals. The scleras were red from crying so much.
Blair stood up for her. “I’m so sorry about Cynthia,” he said.
She nodded and thanked him. Her hair was the same shade as Cynthia’s with the exception of occasional strands of gray. The freckles nestled on her nose and cheeks made the rest of her skin appear white and lifeless.
“Come home with us, Blair,” she said. “A few of Cynthia’s friends are gathering at our place, and it would mean so much to Calvin and me if you came along.”
“I wish I could, but I have business tonight that can’t wait.” Blair paused, studying what was left of a mother who’d just lost everything that ever mattered. “Cynthia will always live in my heart. Fond memories never die.”
Corinne drew a deep breath, sniffling a little. “Thank you, Blair,” she said, a tear striping the side of her face. She lifted her glasses just enough to wipe the tear away with the handkerchief she was holding. “Cynthia spoke of you often.”
“There’s always been a lot for my friends to say about me.”
“All good things,” she said emphatically, taking him by the hand and squeezing it. “All good things.” Slowly she let his hand go.
Blair sighed and nodded his head. He appreciated her effort to try and make him feel better about the state he was in.
“Thanks for coming tonight, and please come to tomorrow’s service at sunrise.”
“I’ll be there,” he said.
She forced a smile, which soon plummeted into a quivering frown. “Goodnight.” Corinne walked away and joined her husband, who was standing with the funeral director. The lovely fragrance she was wearing passed as she did, soothing his nostrils like a cool rain shower after a sweltering day in the sun.
“Blair!” Johnny exclaimed as he came over with an outstretched hand. The smell of tomatoes preceded him, so Blair wasn’t surprised to see him coming. Johnny shook Blair’s hand vigorously, all the while staring down at the clothes he was wearing. “That thirteen dollars and twenty cents in empties sure went a hell of a long way!” Johnny was obviously referring to Blair’s suit, which easily cost five hundred dollars. Blair chuckled after getting the joke.
“Mrs. DeMario,” Blair acknowledged, “how have you been?”
“I was just fine until this awful thing happened to Cyndi,” she whispered. “It’s not safe to walk down the street anymore.”
“Can we give you a lift?” Johnny asked him.
“No thanks. I don’t have far to go,” he said, even though he wasn’t really sure where he was going after this.
“Come on, bud. Let me take you somewhere.”
“Look, wherever my feet fall, that’s home, right? Don’t you go worrying about me. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am. You go on, Johnny.”
“Okay,” he said, his black mustache curled up on each end as if he’d done that on purpose. He gave Blair a smile and then patted him on the back. Begrudgingly, he followed his wife to the rear of the parlor to offer Calvin and Corinne his condolences.