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Griff squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the accusation and the image it conjured. “I called to tell you to be careful of Rodarte. Keep Jason away—”
“Don’t dare even speak my son’s name.”
“Listen to me!”
“I’m over listening.”
“Don’t leave Jason alone with Rodarte. Don’t leave Jason alone, period. I know what you think of me—”
“You don’t know the half of what I think of you. I hope this Rodarte finally nails your ass. And when he does, I hope they fry it.”
CHAPTER
28
FOSTER SPEAKMAN’S FUNERAL BEFITTED A HEAD OF STATE.
Prestonwood Baptist Church had the only sanctuary large enough to accommodate the crowd, and the membership graciously offered it and their choir for the service. The auditorium was filled to capacity. The overflow were seated in annex buildings, where the service was telecast on closed-circuit TV.
Secret Service agents ensured the safety of the first lady, who attended on behalf of the president, who was out of the country. Several congressmen were also there. The governor of Texas delivered the eulogy. A notable clergyman delivered the homily. A Tony-winning Broadway star with whom Foster had attended prep school led the congregation in singing “Amazing Grace.” To conclude the service, the Lord’s Prayer was led by the senior pilot of SunSouth Airlines, leaving not a dry eye in the church.
The cortege stretched for miles.
The event was well documented by the media, from the arrival of dignitaries and celebrities at the church until the crowd at the cemetery dispersed. Most of the television coverage ended on a poignant image, the same heartrending tableau that was captured by a still photographer and published in the newspaper: Laura Speakman silhouetted against the cloudless sky, standing alone with head bowed beside the casket of her husband.
As Laura stood there, she didn’t realize that cameras with telephoto lenses were clicking away fast and furious from a respectful distance. In fact, that was the first moment she’d felt truly alone since Foster’s death, five days earlier.
Finding privacy in which to grieve had been near impossible because she’d been surrounded by people. There were duties and responsibilities that only she, as his sole survivor, could handle. Performing these tasks had, by necessity, kept her grief at bay during the day.
At night, when she retired to her bedroom, she was still aware of the other people inside her house. Kay had ensconced herself in one of the guest bedrooms, Myrna in another, both refusing to leave Laura alone overnight. Policemen were at the gate. Others patrolled the acreage within the estate wall.
Consequently, she hadn’t yet indulged her sorrow or fully grasped that Foster was gone. Not until this quiet, solitary moment, when the reality came crashing down on her.
Kay had accompanied her to the funeral home to select the casket. She remembered going, looking at the choices, listening to the funeral director’s recommendations. But she hadn’t really looked at the casket until now. It was handsome and simple. Foster would have approved.
For the spray, she had ordered white calla lilies, a flower he particularly favored because of its clean and uncluttered form. She reached out and touched one of the blossoms, rubbing it between her fingers, registering both its creamy texture and what that tangibility signified. This was real. This was permanent. Foster was not coming back. She would never see him again. She had so many questions to ask him, so many things to say, but they would remain unasked and unsaid.
“I loved you, Foster,” she whispered.
Her heart was convinced that he knew that. At least the old Foster had known how much she loved him. Strange, but since his death, when she thought about him, she didn’t see the man in the wheelchair, behaving oddly, saying things he knew would wound her.
Instead she saw him as he’d been before the accident. She envisioned the Foster who’d been vital and bursting with energy, his body as strong and vivacious as his personality, his humor and optimism infectious to everyone with whom he came into contact.
That was the Foster Speakman she mourned.
By the time the limousine arrived at the mansion, the place was already packed with guests who’d been invited to eat, drink, and share memories of Foster. It was expected that she host such a reception, but the very idea of enduring it had exhausted her. She’d delegated the planning to Kay and Myrna. In the formal dining room was an unsparing buffet. Waiters passed through the crowd with trays of canapés. People were queued at the bar. A harpist provided background music.
Laura mingled with the guests, accepting their condolences, crying with some, laughing with others, who told anecdotes about Foster. During the telling of one story, out of the corner of her eye, Laura noted that the double doors to the library remained closed. She had learned through Kay that the police had released it as a crime scene and that she was free to use it again. Mrs. Dobbins had arranged for it to be thoroughly cleaned.
Nevertheless, no one went near that room. Nor did anyone mention the circumstances of Foster’s death.
Detective Rodarte was a grim reminder of them. He arrived late and kept to the edges of the crowd. Laura tried pretending he wasn’t there, but she was constantly aware of him. She would turn and catch him disdainfully scanning the crowd, or staring at her with unnerving concentration.
The house was almost clear of guests when Laura drew Kay aside. “I want you to call a meeting for two o’clock tomorrow.”
“What kind of meeting?”
“Executive council and board members.”
