Lauren pressed a hand discreetly against the side of her head. It was hot in the chapel, the cloying sweetness of the full-blown roses mixing with the faint scents of furniture polish and incense.
She needed to get out, but it wasn’t over. Sister Rose stopped speaking, but before she stepped away from the lectern she signaled to someone in the front row. “We’ll now hear from St. Ursula’s head girl, senior prefect Elizabeth Lincoln.”
Sister Rose stepped carefully back down the steps as a tall, slender girl with long blond hair rose to take her place. The girl made her way gracefully to the front, pausing to bow in front of the altar. It wasn’t the quick bob that most Catholics gave, but a full, reverent bend from the waist that managed to look both dramatic and pious.
She mounted the steps to the lectern slowly, as if she were walking to some internal beat, and she paused in front of the microphone, waiting until everyone’s attention was on her before she spoke.
“Morgan was our classmate,” she said. Her voice was pure, dulcet-toned. “She was our housemate and our teammate. Most of all, Morgan Wycoff was our friend.”
The congregation sat rapt. All the girls’ eyes were on her and Lauren, too, was drawn to that lovely face. The girl was reminiscent of a Botticelli angel, her lightly tanned skin gleaming under the lanterns hanging from the chapel ceiling. The boxy uniform, with its classic box-pleat uniform skirt and Peter Pan–collar blouse didn’t look shapeless or bulky on her as it did on most of the girls.
“This tragic death cannot diminish Morgan’s life. She will be remembered by all of us not just for the girl she was, but the woman she would have become. We are tempted at such times to ask why? Why Morgan? Why now? Why did she leave the safety of our campus at night to venture places out-of-bounds?”
There was another wave of murmurs at this, but it died away quickly as the girl held up one hand. “We are tempted to focus on these things, but we must not. Instead of asking why, we must ask ourselves, what now? What should we learn from Morgan’s life that will help us in our own struggles? What can we take from this experience that will help us grow stronger as a community?”
It was quite an impressive speech and by the end most of the teachers and many of the girl’s classmates were nodding their heads. When she finished speaking, Elizabeth Lincoln was greeted by a spontaneous round of applause. She smiled and bowed her head, the very picture of humility. For a moment, her pose mimicked the statue of the Virgin near her.
Her speech was followed by a less inspired but still heartfelt address by the gym teacher, a square-shaped woman of indeterminate age looking uncomfortable in an ill-fitting black pantsuit. She was the only female not wearing a skirt, but Lauren suspected that being out of a tracksuit was probably a big concession for her.
“Morgan was a natural at volleyball. She was a power hitter and the team will really miss her.” She said more about Morgan’s volleyball skills, none of which made sense to Lauren, and then the woman suddenly burst into tears, as if a dam had broken, blubbering into her callused hands until Sister Rose stepped forward with a handkerchief and led her away from the lectern.
When the service ended, the girls filed out of the chapel section by section. Lauren lingered on the steps, trying not to make it too obvious that she was taking deep breaths.
A girl with cascade of curling black hair and clear green eyes approached her. “Are you Ms. Kavanaugh?”
“Yes. And you?”
“Kristen Townson. Welcome to St. Ursula’s.” The girl offered a hand and Lauren shook it, returning the girl’s easy smile.
“You’re the one who found Morgan, right?” Kristen said.
Lauren’s smile faded. “That’s right.”
“Was she conscious when you found her?”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, did she say anything? Before she died, I mean.”
“No, that is, not that I know of—” Lauren’s struggle to respond was interrupted by a familiar voice.
“Kristen!” Elizabeth Lincoln appeared out of the crowd, frowning at the black-haired girl. “Don’t put Ms. Kavanaugh on the spot like that.”
She turned to Lauren and offered her a handshake and an apologetic smile. “I must apologize, I’m sure Kristen didn’t mean to be rude.” She shot another severe look at the other girl, who mumbled an apology and disappeared into the crowd of girls.
“I’m sorry that you’ve had such an upsetting beginning to your teaching experience,” Elizabeth said. “I hope it hasn’t negatively affected your feelings about our school.”
Lauren smiled, touched and a little amused by the girl’s unconscious imitation of the headmistress.
“No, not at all,” she said. She glanced around at the other girls milling about the entrance to the chapel and wondered how many of them were asking the same questions that Kristen had. “Were you friends with Morgan?”
“I knew her a little,” Elizabeth said, her gaze moving away from Lauren’s and resting on the woods where the body had been found. “I wouldn’t say we were close.”
Chapter Six
Half the pictures taken of Morgan Wycoff’s body were fuzzy. “Idiot says the camera wasn’t working,” Oz said, slapping them down on the table in the squad room with disgust. “Guess what I bet we find if we check it out?”
“There’s no problem?” Stephanie said.
“Bingo.”
“He’s a new CI, right?” Detective Sean Cone flicked one of the pictures with his finger.
“Yeah. Stupid kid. So freaked out he couldn’t hold the camera straight.”
Detective Joe Frangione shook his graying head. “Don’t they have age requirements? Jesus, why is this place crawling with snot-nosed kids lately?”
He glanced meaningfully at Stephanie and Sean and she gave him an evil smile. “Didn’t they offer you the retirement package already? Maybe they figure some of us need to be here to wipe your ass if you won’t leave.”
“Whoa, someone’s sensitive!” He held up big hands, warding her off. “Warn me next time when you’re on the rag.”
“Sure thing, but I thought Depends would be a better choice for your problem.”
Oz grinned as Joe muttered something about getting coffee and stalked away. “A little testy today?”
“Don’t start with me. The guy’s a dickhead.” She looked at the pictures over and over again and went through them one by one, lining them up on the table and pulling out the case notes. She was a little testy. She’d been tense, tired, and in need of a drink by the time she’d left work last night and coming home to find Alex still sulking hadn’t made her feel any better.
“Do you seriously think one interrupted fuck is worth all this?” she demanded after he’d answered her in monosyllables for ten minutes.
“One, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t refer to our lovemaking as ‘fucking’ and two, you’ve got the mouth of a trucker. That’s really attractive.” He’d been standing with his back to her in the kitchen, chopping vegetables to throw into a stir-fry with some tofu. She hated tofu.
“One, I wish you wouldn’t itemize everything and two, I hate tofu and you should know that by now.”
His back went rigid, then he stalked past her to the silverware drawer, grabbed a spoon, and spent five minutes laboriously removing all the tofu and flinging it into the sink.
She