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Of course I wouldn’t see her now. She was no doubt up front in the roped-off areas. I’d have to find her after the service. I quickly found a pew that wasn’t completely filled and took a seat in the back.
I opened the pamphlet containing the program for the service.
Derek Paul Wolfe
He was sixty-five years old. Still a young man. Everything I’d read since I found out who Riley was indicated he’d been the victim of a gunshot. Was he murdered? No one seemed to know yet, though it was presumed he had been.
This obituary made him sound like a saint.
Father, entrepreneur, philanthropist.
An all-around wonderful guy. Who would want to murder an all-around wonderful guy?
Beat the hell out of me.
It helped to explain why Riley had run off to Montana, though. She was mourning. She needed to escape.
And of course she came home for the memorial.
She hadn’t run away from me. She’d run toward her home, to honor her father’s life. Who wouldn’t?
Well, I wouldn’t, but I washed that thought away. Being at a memorial service was enough of a downer.
A string quartet was playing something classical. I wasn’t a classical music enthusiast, but it sounded like Mozart to me. I could be totally wrong.
I settled in at the end of the row. I smiled at the man next to me. He grumbled under his breath.
Yup. New Yorkers.
All right, then. All I had to do was wait this out. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and put everything on silent, and then, instead of joining in for the hymns and scripture readings, I played a game of solitaire, which was met with a surly frown from my neighbor.
I warmed and slid my phone back into my pocket.
“…was a gifted businessman,” a microphoned voice said.
I looked toward the altar. A man—a man who could have been Riley’s twin—stood at the lector podium. His dark hair was long and pulled back against his neck. He looked down at notes frequently, as if he weren’t comfortable speaking in front of people.
“He instilled in my brothers, sister, and me the value of hard work. We were born to privilege, but we still had to earn our way. Each of us worked for his company when we were young, and he taught us valuable lessons for work and for life.
“But who was Derek Wolfe, really? He was a private man who valued duty, decency, honor, and integrity from the time he was a child to the day of his horrific death. He was born to Alistair and Marnie Wolfe, my grandparents, and was their only child. He studied at St. John’s preparatory school in Manhattan before venturing to Columbia for a degree in business. He played sports at prep school and university, as he was a tall and strong man and gifted athletically. He was gifted academically, as well, and was inducted into Phi Beta Kappa at Columbia and was also a member of Mensa.
“A few years after college, he married Constance Larson. Though their union eventually ended in divorce, our mother and father gave us an idyllic childhood.
“As a father, Derek Wolfe demanded the best, and we gave it. He made sure we always knew how lucky we were to live in such luxury.
“If we broke something, we either fixed it or paid for it. How simple it would have been for our father to just purchase a new one. But Derek Wolfe’s children learned the value of money.
“His discipline was strict. As children, we sometimes fought against it, but as adults, we understand the lessons learned.
“Even as we grew away from him, he remained a solid presence in our lives and in our mother’s. He was always a reassuring presence during difficult times.
“Especially during difficult times.
“Derek Paul Wolfe.
“You knew him as an entrepreneur. A businessman. A philanthropist. An avid golfer and squash player. Builder of an empire.
“My siblings and I knew him simply as “Dad.”
“And we miss him.”
The man nodded and then left the podium.
A few sniffles and soft sobs echoed through the sanctuary. The parish priest then took the podium for what I hoped would be a brief homily.
“Derek Wolfe and I grew up together,” the priest began. “Not many of you know that, I’m sure. He was a little older than I was, and I’d come around this very parish on Sundays to beg for a few spare coins. You see, my mother and I lived in a tenement in Hell’s Kitchen, and I regularly walked over to the good side of Manhattan to beg and steal. I sometimes crawled underneath the pews to grab a purse that had been left unattended.
“One day, I tried to steal Marnie Wolfe’s purse.
“Derek, then about eleven years old, kicked me in the head so hard I cried out in the middle of mass.”
