“He was murdered, Sara. Stabbed with a steak knife, like your father. And the killer has never been caught.”
SARA WOULD ARRIVE any minute. Jordan quashed the urge to call June Roehmer on her police radio to ask for their estimated time of arrival. He needed to prepare himself to be the rock Sara would lean on in the ordeal to come.
For Stu’s sake and Casper’s, he would take care of her. Properly. His own unanticipated attraction toward her would not get in the way. He wouldn’t let it.
He had been at the Santa Gregoria Community Church for an hour, checking out every cranny in the old, Gothic-style gray-stone church that was bleak and dismal enough to hold a funeral every day of the week. But this day, only one was scheduled: Casper Shepard’s. He would be buried in the church’s graveyard.
Jordan stopped outside the small vestry where Casper’s closed casket lay. The area smelled of burned wax. He stared at the simple metal casket that he had chosen. Would it have been Casper’s choice? Sara’s?
He remembered the similar funerary container that had been chosen for Stu three years earlier. Jordan sucked in a deep breath. I’m sorry, buddy, he thought. This wasn’t supposed to happen. But I promise you I’ll get the son of a—
“Everything in order, Dawes?”
Jordan turned rapidly to face Carroll Heumann, the assistant chief of police, now acting chief—and Jordan’s boss. Heumann was dressed in a formal blue uniform, though most of the time on the job he wore civilian style suits.
He scowled at Jordan’s own dark suit as though it emphasized his being an outsider.
Heumann was a heavy man with more chins than neck and a decided lack of hair. His narrowed brown eyes reflected his no-nonsense outlook. For the moment, they studied Jordan.
Jordan responded to his question. “Far as I can tell, everything here is as it should be.” That was a lie, of course. Nothing here was as it should be. Casper Shepard should not be dead. This should not be the day of the funeral of one of the most vital, kind, determined men Jordan had ever met.
“All right,” Heumann said, joining Jordan beside the doorway to the vestry. The hall where they stood was carpeted with a well-worn, patterned red runner with a blue-and-red border. The walls were textured and dingy white, and dark, dreary paintings of European cathedrals hung here and there. “There’ll be a few cops in town from nearby jurisdictions to keep an eye on things, since most of our people will be attending the funeral. I don’t anticipate any trouble, but you never know when it may come, or from where.” His scrutiny of Jordan’s face had intensified.
“No,” Jordan agreed. “You don’t.” He wondered if there was a message hidden behind Heumann’s words—such as an intimation that trouble came from Texas, just like Jordan.
“Your bride’s all right?”
The inquiry seemed belated to Jordan, but he answered willingly. He had every intention of making certain that everyone in the world knew Sara’s condition.
It was safer for her that way.
“In most aspects, she seems fine. But that blow to her head—the doctors have no idea if her memory will ever return.”
“She doesn’t remember anything now?”
“No,” Jordan said, looking steadily into his superior’s bulldog face. Had he seen a hint of relief flash through his eyes—or was it suspicion? No one was off Jordan’s suspect list for now.
He supposed that everyone on the case felt the same way—and that he was at the top of some suspect lists himself. People knew that Casper and he had been arguing.
It had been part of their plan.
“Jordan?” A female voice interrupted his thoughts. It was June Roehmer. She was alone. Jordan felt his features freeze in the fury before the storm; he had told her that she could not leave Sara alone for a moment. She obviously knew what he was thinking, for she said hastily, “Don’t worry. Honest. Sara’s fine. She’s out in the car. Ramon is keeping an eye on her.” She hesitated. “I told her about Stu. She didn’t remember him, but people here will talk about him today.”
“You’re right,” Jordan acknowledged. “I was going to tell her before things got started, but I’m glad you beat me to it.”
After all Sara had been through, he had wanted to protect her from this as long as possible, then break it to her in a manner least calculated to deliver another blow. No good way of presentation had come to him, and he had probably waited too long.
The problem had now been taken from him.
“How did she handle it?”
June shrugged. “Bravely, the way she has dealt with all of this. Is it all right to bring her in?”
“Yes,” Jordan said. “In fact, I’ll go get her.”
Sara’s current sitter, Ramon Susa, was June’s patrol partner. He had always seemed a little light in the brains department to Jordan, but heavy in Academy-learned police procedure. He was probably as good as anyone for guarding Sara—at least in public. He had been Stu’s friend, but there were rumors that they’d had an argument before Stu was killed. Jordan still considered him as much a suspect in Casper’s murder, too, as anyone else.
Outside, dozens of cars were beginning to park along the church’s wide circular driveway. Many were police patrol cars from Santa Gregoria and other towns all over central California. Their occupants, most in uniform, spilled onto the pavement.
Jordan spotted Ramon, a clean-cut young Latino in uniform, standing near one of the black-and-white police cars. He was leaning down toward the passenger window, apparently conversing with the occupant.
“Hello, Ramon,” Jordan said as he reached them. “Thanks for watching Sara for me.” He opened the car door. Strain shadowed his new wife’s eyes, and her pale complexion contrasted vividly with the black, slightly wavy hair that hung loose to just below her shoulders. She let him help her from the car. “Come inside, Sara.” He kept his voice gentle. She didn’t say a word as she stood, but shot him a half smile that somehow looked devastated. “June told me you know about Stu now,” he told her. “I was going to tell you here, but…” He allowed his voice to trail off.
She nodded slowly. “I suppose everyone else here knows, so it’s a good thing I do now, too.” She hesitated. “And my mother?” she asked.
“She’s gone, too, Sara,” Jordan said gently. “She died in an accident when Stu and you were kids.”
“I see.” There was no measuring the depth of the pain in her voice, so Jordan didn’t try.
He couldn’t help glancing at the spot where the bandage still lay beneath her hair. How badly did her head still hurt? He kept his arm tightly around her slender shoulders, steering her through the growing crowd. She felt slight against him, but he was still aware—much too aware—of her feminine contours beneath her fitted jacket and flowing suit skirt. When she stumbled once, he kept her from falling.
She glanced up at him and he wanted to erase the gratitude he saw there. It was his fault that she was about to bury her father. “We’re nearly there,” he growled. He made himself ignore the bewildered tilt of her head at his unkind tone.
The first person to approach as they stepped inside the church was Carroll Heumann. Of course. “I’m sorry for your loss, Sara,” he said, his voice gruffer than usual. Maybe he meant it, Jordan thought. “And that you can’t remember who did it,” he added.
She winced, and Jordan wanted to slug the man. “Me, too,” she said softly. “But the doctors assured me that my memory will come back.”
“Someday,” Jordan interposed as several others on the Santa Gregoria police