LITMIR.BIZ

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is there? I’ll be so glad when this is over and I can quit pretending I’m a grieving ex-wife. Weird role, isn’t it?”

      Over? Rosie’s temples grew hot as a weird sensation of panic swamped her. Feeling hopeless, she trailed Yolie down the stairs.

      When would it be over—for her?

      Seven

      The chapel was a grandiose, high-ceilinged room with tall stained-glass windows on all the walls. A floodlight shone down on the altar and the golden urn that contained Pierce’s ashes.

      Oh, my God! Was that Mirabella Camrett, her next-door neighbor, in the very front row? Had she even known Pierce?

      Oh, no. She was turning around!

      Zippy lyrics of a contemporary Christian song seemed to roar in the sanctuary as Rosie ducked behind Todd and Yolie, who were threading their way down the aisle, through the throngs of people and extra chairs that had been crammed at the ends of each pew.

      A little more than a year ago Rosie had attended this church with Pierce on the Sundays he hadn’t been on call. They were to have been married here. Instead she’d hacked her wedding cake to pieces and had chased him around with fistfuls of icing and a knife.

      She’d forgotten all about that until now.

      A knife. The memory brought a shudder.

       Show your joy to the Lord with dancing.

      The crowd was bigger than she’d expected. Maybe it was only natural that the notoriety and mystery surrounding Pierce’s death had attracted more than just family and friends. The mourners’ mood, although somber, was also edged with that curious excitement that goes along with scandal and murder.

      Trying to be discreet, Rosie lowered her lashes. There had to be three thousand people assembled. Their jewels and silk and smooth faces made her feel a little old and dowdy, or at least most definitely past her first youth.

      Her stomach went hollow. While a lot of faces were vaguely familiar, there were many more she did not recognize. When she looked closer, she saw lots of Pierce’s former patients, his staff and partners, other doctors and nurses and members of the medical community.

      Doubtlessly, they recognized her, too. Not that they caught her eye or spoke.

      Men in dark suits lined the walls. Just as she was wondering how many were police and how many were funeral directors, she spotted Michael in a black suit that was so rumpled, she wondered if he’d slept in it on a stakeout.

      Suave, he was not. His broad back was glued to the wall as if he needed its support. Beneath his dark tan, his face was gray. His eyes were closed, with a look of fatigue rather than spiritual conviction. Indeed, he seemed so battered that despite his tough appearance she felt sorry for him.

      Her heart hammered as she imagined him poring over blood and gore. Was Pierce’s murder getting to him? Or was it just his life?

      Michael was a rougher, less elegant sort than Pierce. Maybe his father’s violent death had hardened him. Maybe growing up poor had done it.

      Being a cop couldn’t be an easy job. Maybe he’d never had soft edges. For as long as she’d known him, he’d had a core of steel. Still, even with his eyes closed and his skin ashen, he oozed testosterone.

      Quickly, before he opened his eyes and misconstrued her interest, she tiptoed faster and caught up with Yolie. Why hadn’t she headed their little parade up this aisle? She would have sat them down long ago so they wouldn’t call attention to themselves.

      Clearly, Yolie wanted to flaunt her presence at Pierce’s funeral, as well as his sons’. Why was it so important to her that everybody see her grieve? Was the killer here, too, driven by his own agenda?

      When Yolie saw Kylie Rae Carver, Pierce’s second ex-wife, sitting all by herself, she shot her former rival a Texas-size smile and then slid in beside her.

      Rosie jerked her by the sash.

      Normally, the two ex-wives avoided each other like they would a contagion. When Yolie kept sliding toward Kylie, the black satin ribbons came undone and flowed over the pew.

      Kylie, who lived in their neighborhood and walked her poodle in their park, couldn’t be more than forty-one. She was razor-wire thin and looked years older than she was. Pierce had always said such unkind things about her, too.

       My worst wife, and that’s saying something. Drug addict. Alcoholic. Poodle nut. Nymphomaniac. And now a lez.

      Whether she was any of those things was anybody’s guess. Rosie had always been dying of curiosity to know. Kylie never drank in public. But as Pierce had pointed out, she did have those fleshless legs that alcoholics sometimes have.

      Once, Rosie had asked Yolie if there was such a thing as a lesbian nymphomaniac.

      Yolie had laughed. “In his wet dreams.”

      “But Pierce always said Kylie hit on him even after their divorce, and told me that if I was smart, I’d keep my distance from her, too.”

      “Liar liar, pants on fire. He just didn’t want you two talking. The bastard’s secretive. Not that she’s ever said more than boo about him to me. When forced to see each other, we always stick to safe subjects like our poodles’ latest neuroses or bowel habits. The truth is, I’d give anything to talk to her and to Vanessa, especially Vanessa—since I sort of ended up dealing with Darius, who wasn’t the easiest kid.”

      Vanessa had been Pierce’s first wife, as well as Darius’s mother. The marriage had ended when she’d hanged herself in their newly decorated shower one gorgeous fall morning right after she’d driven Darius to private elementary school. She’d put the trash out, said hi to her neighbor and tidied up the house. Then she’d taken that final shower.

      “Not that I really need to talk to Vanessa. The facts speak for themselves. Wife number one kills herself. Kylie drinks and gave up men for good, and me, wife number three, gets fatter than a house. Maybe you never made it down the altar with him, sweetie, but he did a number on you, too. You hyperventilate every time you gain an ounce, and I see the way you’re always looking scared when you get around a mirror, like you’re afraid to look. And that lifting the chin thing you do lately…not to mention the boob job you let him talk you into. What does that say about him? About us?”

      As if Rosie had wanted to analyze that.

      Kylie smiled coolly at Rosie without speaking, and then stared ahead in the direction of the urn, her tired face going blank again as she studied it. She did, however, resume singing, “Dancing With My Father in the Fields of Grace.”

      Naturally, Rosie couldn’t help noting that Kylie’s diamonds were even bigger than Yolie’s or that real diamonds sparkled better than her own fake stones. Had Pierce bought every woman he’d ever known serious jewelry but her?

      Arranging her plump, bejeweled hands in her lap so that every ostentatious diamond blazed to full effect, Yolie was overcome with sniffles every time she looked at the urn. While everybody else sang, her wet, glazed eyes grew fixed on that object. She sobbed and then dabbed dramatically at her running mascara, diamonds flashing, of course. Kylie’s face grew stonier with every sniffle.

      Was Yolie for real? For all her usual show of bravado, did she still care about Pierce? Was that why she’d never married again? Why she’d never really had a serious relationship with a man unless you counted the handsome young hunks, like Xavier, who had paraded through her bedroom’s revolving doors? Not to mention Vicenzo, whom she’d met in Italy. Or was she faking this torrential flood for the sake of appearances?

      Rosie stared at the urn, hoping Yolie’s deluge would inspire at least one tiny tear for Pierce.

      Dry-eyed, she watched as the preacher stood up and lamented the violent death. Anecdotes about Pierce’s life—his adult life—were recited in glowing detail. Friends got up and spoke. Not that their

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