Double Booked For Death

“Yeah, well, next time you think I’ve turned into some sort of deranged ex-cop with a vendetta, how about you ask me about it first?”

She said it without rancor, however. Darla felt her earlier uneasiness lighten, while her death grip on the steering wheel loosened.

“And if it makes you feel any better,” Jake added, “when I found out you were the one inheriting Dee’s estate, I went ahead and had an old friend of mine in Records run your name, just to make sure you were legit.”

When Darla did a little sputtering of her own, Jake grinned.

“Kinda pinches, that shoe on the other foot, eh? But we all decided that you were about the most boring person we’ve ever run, so I was pretty sure that Dee knew what she was doing. Now, you wanna call it even, and we’ll move on?”

“Even,” Darla agreed with a smile and no little sense of relief.

They drove on for a while, then Jake announced, “Okay, that’s out of the way, let’s plan how we’re going to handle this funeral. I know the reason you’re going is to pay your respects, but you might as well take advantage of the opportunity. It might sound like a cliché, but you’d be surprised at how often killers show up at their victims’ funerals.”

Then, when Darla shot her an alarmed look—killer?—Jake gave a wry shrug.

“I’m not saying that I think Valerie was murdered, but let’s cover all the bases. Look around, see who’s there, and listen to the gossip. You never know, someone might fling themselves on Valerie’s coffin and admit to doing the deed.”

They stopped for a brief lunch once they got out of the city; then, switching places so that Jake was driving and Darla was sitting in the back, they hit the road again.

It was a quarter to two when they pulled up in front of the Episcopal church: an elegant, white-stoned edifice complete with bell tower and cross, and set well back from the road in the midst of a manicured green lawn. A curved drive led from the street to a small parking lot along one side of the building. Darla could see a sleek black hearse and two limousines idling under the distant portico, but further vehicles were blocked from joining them by a row of oversized orange cones.

All this meant that the mourners had to hike the distance from curb to church. Shiny new Jaguars, Bentleys, Porsches, and BMWs made up most of the vehicles discharging passengers there at the gated front walk, though Darla also noticed a couple of Rolls-Royces purring past. She saw, as well, that a large wooden podium manned by half a dozen crisply uniformed young men had been set up along the curb. As each new group of mourners piled out, their respective drivers were pointed toward a nearby lot where they could await their employers’ return. For those mourners slightly lower down the food chain—meaning they had driven themselves—one of those youths promptly leaped behind the wheel of the empty car and drove it off to a second location.

“Valet parking at a funeral,” Darla murmured in amazement, wondering if one was supposed to tip in such circumstances and feeling slightly smug that she had a driver of her own.

Jake grinned. “That’s the Hamptons for you.”

Darla pinned on her oversized hat again as Jake pulled into line with the rest and waited their turn. She noticed a couple of local police cars prowling the winding road, no doubt dispatched to hustle away any paparazzi, fans, or Lord’s Blessing Church protesters who might have learned the location of the service. For the moment, however, it appeared that the destination remained a secret. The only black garb she spied was the fashionable funeral attire worn by the parade of wealthy guests.

As they reached the valet stand, a young man rushed to Darla’s side to open her door.

“Enjoy hobbing with the nobs, kid,” Jake told her as she climbed out. “And if you see anyone there you think I should meet”—she pulled her glasses down to her nose and waggled her brows meaningfully—“send me a text.”

Darla adjusted her veil so that it caught on her chin and draped the shawl over her shoulders before starting down the walk toward the church. Ahead of her, a sixtyish man in a black suit was escorting a paper-thin blonde less than half his age who could have been a model. Darla was pleased to see that the young woman wore a black wrap dress similar to Darla’s own, though hers had a stand-up white collar and was hemmed a good foot shorter than Darla’s knee-length outfit. She suspected, however, that the model’s dress was also worth twenty times the cost of Darla’s sensible knit, which she had found on sale for less than a hundred dollars.

Her feet in the unaccustomed heels had already begun to ache by the time she reached the broad marble staircase leading up to the church’s pair of arched wooden doors. She thought longingly of the running shoes she’d left behind in the car, but she knew too well that the fashion of pairing that footwear with formal wear had gone out with the eighties.