"Charles Edward Duck," Alyssum Tarcher said in a rolling, powerful voice, "was a man who lived a full and rich life." I tuned him out, studying Paul's face in profile. What was going on?
"He was a police detective in Chicago until he retired to Edgerton to live with his aging parents, now deceased, some sixteen years ago. We will miss him. He was one of us." I heard the scrape of bagpipes again, minor chords sliding into one another, then nothing. Alyssum Tarcher, the patriarch, returned to sit in the first row.
Elaine Tarcher rose next. She looked slim and well groomed and rich. Her dark suit was elegant, somber. She wore pearls. When she spoke, her voice was full and deep with emotion. "I first met Charlie Duck at our annual New Year's Eve party back in the late-eighties. We were having the party that year at The Edwardian. Charlie played his guitar for all of us. Good-bye, Charlie."
A dozen townsfolk followed, the first representing the Anglican Church. It was Rob Morrison. He spoke briefly of Charlie's good nature, his acceptance of others, his tolerance.
Miss Geraldine, the leader of the town League, mayor of Edgerton, represented the Jewish religion. She spoke of Charlie's lack of anger toward anyone, his gentleness.
It appeared that everyone had seen Charlie Duck differently.
The final speaker was Mother Marco, ninety-three, who owned the Union 76 station. She was small and frail, and her pink scalp showed through soft, sparse white hair. "I don't represent any religion," she said in a surprisingly strong voice. "Well, maybe you could say I represent old age and the brink of death. I feel older than the rocks on the shore below Edgerton." The old lady grinned out at us all, showing big, very white false teeth. "And I'm proud of it. I knew Charlie Duck better than any of you. He was smart, was Charlie. He knew a bit about everything. He liked finding things out. If he didn't understand something, he dug and dug until he found his answers. Because he was a police detective in Chicago, he didn't have a high opinion of anybody. He wasn't blind about people."
Of all the speakers, I thought that old Mother Marco had hit Charlie right on.
Alyssum Tarcher walked to the wooden pyramid and picked up Charlie's silver urn and held it over his head. "To Charlie," he shouted. Everyone cheered, filed in behind Alyssum Tarcher, and marched out of the church.
"My, oh my," Sherlock said.
"Some show," Savich said.
I felt Laura's fingers close around my hand. "I don't want to go there," she said. "To the cemetery. I don't want to go."
"No, we don't have to. No one will expect us. After all, we are outsiders." I saw Rob Morrison beside Maggie Sheffield, and I thought of Detective Castanga. Margaret was my wife at one time.
"Who the hell are you?"
"This is Cotter Tarcher, guys. He's Alyssum's only son."
Cotter dismissed the two women and eyed Savich, his eyes dark and hot. Savich arched a dark eyebrow.
"Here we have the weakest link," I whispered to Laura.
"I asked you a question, buddy. What are you doing here? You don't belong here. Nobody invited you."
"Actually, I did," I said. I nodded toward both Sherlock and Savich, and showed Cotter that I was holding Laura's hand. "They're friends of mine."
Cotter said, "None of you should be here."
Savich smiled, a kick-ass smile that should have alerted Cotter but didn't. Savich knew exactly what he was doing. He'd taken Cotter's measure very quickly. "I enjoyed the performances, sport. Everyone who spoke was very talented. Why didn't you speak? No religion? No talent?"
Cotter's eyes flamed. He was quickly going beyond anger, to nearly out of control. What had happened to him? Cotter had a hair trigger and Savich had baited him well, but no one was more surprised than I was when Cotter took a swing at Savich. I didn't move; I even felt a bit sorry for Cotter. As for Sherlock, she said, "Oh, no. You idiot," but not in time.
Savich smoothly caught Cotter's wrist and squeezed it back down to his side. Cotter tried a kick but didn't make it. Savich grabbed Cotter's leg just behind his knee and flipped him into the air. He released Cotter's wrist only at the last minute before he landed on his back in a marigold bed, the move smoother than a twelve-year-old scotch.
Sherlock looked down at Cotter, her hands on her hips. "Why are you acting like an adolescent?"
"Get a grip on yourself," Savich said. "Consider growing up."
"None of you is worth a piece of shit. Big federal agents, that's a laugh. You'll never find out anything." Cotter dragged himself out of the flower bed and stomped away.