shivering
and brow mopping she had done all day. There was
nothing to learn here. Either the thing everyone was after had been destroyed
or was lost, or it was back at the inn or, perhaps, the clan tent. Maybe she
could find someone who liked to gossip.
“Do you want to talk to Ranger Nyland for any reason?” she asked. “Supposing that he’s even here.”
“No, and I have no wish to linger either. It’s a cursed
climate. Even the trees look unhappy. Why would anyone come here?”
“Lumber. And that was a long time
ago.” Juliet thought that the trees were unhappy because they had been damaged
by fire when the car and cabin burned, but she didn’t argue the point. They
were not in the heart of some winter wonderland. “I’ve got to admit that I feel
like we’ve scraped the bottom of the barrel this time. I just don’t know why
anyone—especially after the police—came out here. What the heck did they hope
to find? And what the devil did they think I would find? It would have to be
something massive—and I just can’t think what that would be. A
heisted armored car carrying the gold of Fort Knox? A
downed airplane full of stolen securities?”
The wind gusted, flinging ice in her face, and Juliet turned
back for the car.
“You’re right. Let’s go. I’ve had enough of the great
outdoors. It’s time for a hot bath and a brandy—and maybe not in that order. If
there’s something here, the North Wind can have it.”
Chapter 8
Juliet was not an expert on the Requiem Mass, but she had
listened enough to Harrison and Darby that she knew that it was a Mass to honor
the dead that dated back to the second century, though its current form as a
mainly orchestral piece with liturgical text set to music was only a few
hundred years old and frowned on by certain churches.
Black vestments were worn by all the singers and the
orchestra since it was the color of deepest mourning and reflected what would
have been worn by the officiating priest or bishop had this been a true
Catholic exequial Mass. Nor would the body be present,
of course, which would have been the case centuries ago. That seemed best to
Juliet who couldn’t get enthused about singing madrigals to a corpse.
The crowd was swathed in velvet and satin—little of it in
black. A few were men in fine, muted wool from England and finer, more muted
wool from Italy. The jewels in the crowd were mostly fake but sparkled
enchantingly in the candlelight. Banners had been added to the beams overhead
and there was so much greenery on the overburdened altar that if it ever lost
its moorings and toppled onto the choir, the singers would be smothered before
anyone could dig them out.
The artists from Bartholomew’s Woods sat together, except
for Darby who was up front. Elizabeth and Raphael were seated at the ends of
the pews near the back so their wheelchairs didn’t block the aisle. Asher was
next to his mother with Carrie Simmons, Hans and Rose in the same pew. Juliet
was next to Raphael with Esteban on her other side. Mickey, Robbie, Jerry, and
Thomas finished out their pew. Except for Rose, the penguin among peacocks, they
were not wearing black—probably didn’t own anything in such a somber color, but
they were all—including Carrie—dressed with dignity, though her brown and peach
ruffled dress looked a little like peaches floating in a bouillabaisse.
The biggest surprise was Mickey, since with him it was
always couture potluck, but he had managed to put himself together for the
event he thought of as a musical funeral. This meant slacks, shoes, and a navy
turtleneck sweater, and a sport coat with suede elbow patches instead of a message
t-shirt.
Rose came out of her seat to hug Juliet. Once standing, she looked
a bit like she was wearing a tent that had pulled up its stakes and rolled
through some moss, but it was a chic cashmere tent in basic black and anyway
she was short enough for her strange green fringed hem to go
and brow mopping she had done all day. There was
nothing to learn here. Either the thing everyone was after had been destroyed
or was lost, or it was back at the inn or, perhaps, the clan tent. Maybe she
could find someone who liked to gossip.
“Do you want to talk to Ranger Nyland for any reason?” she asked. “Supposing that he’s even here.”
“No, and I have no wish to linger either. It’s a cursed
climate. Even the trees look unhappy. Why would anyone come here?”
“Lumber. And that was a long time
ago.” Juliet thought that the trees were unhappy because they had been damaged
by fire when the car and cabin burned, but she didn’t argue the point. They
were not in the heart of some winter wonderland. “I’ve got to admit that I feel
like we’ve scraped the bottom of the barrel this time. I just don’t know why
anyone—especially after the police—came out here. What the heck did they hope
to find? And what the devil did they think I would find? It would have to be
something massive—and I just can’t think what that would be. A
heisted armored car carrying the gold of Fort Knox? A
downed airplane full of stolen securities?”
The wind gusted, flinging ice in her face, and Juliet turned
back for the car.
“You’re right. Let’s go. I’ve had enough of the great
outdoors. It’s time for a hot bath and a brandy—and maybe not in that order. If
there’s something here, the North Wind can have it.”
Chapter 8
Juliet was not an expert on the Requiem Mass, but she had
listened enough to Harrison and Darby that she knew that it was a Mass to honor
the dead that dated back to the second century, though its current form as a
mainly orchestral piece with liturgical text set to music was only a few
hundred years old and frowned on by certain churches.
Black vestments were worn by all the singers and the
orchestra since it was the color of deepest mourning and reflected what would
have been worn by the officiating priest or bishop had this been a true
Catholic exequial Mass. Nor would the body be present,
of course, which would have been the case centuries ago. That seemed best to
Juliet who couldn’t get enthused about singing madrigals to a corpse.
The crowd was swathed in velvet and satin—little of it in
black. A few were men in fine, muted wool from England and finer, more muted
wool from Italy. The jewels in the crowd were mostly fake but sparkled
enchantingly in the candlelight. Banners had been added to the beams overhead
and there was so much greenery on the overburdened altar that if it ever lost
its moorings and toppled onto the choir, the singers would be smothered before
anyone could dig them out.
The artists from Bartholomew’s Woods sat together, except
for Darby who was up front. Elizabeth and Raphael were seated at the ends of
the pews near the back so their wheelchairs didn’t block the aisle. Asher was
next to his mother with Carrie Simmons, Hans and Rose in the same pew. Juliet
was next to Raphael with Esteban on her other side. Mickey, Robbie, Jerry, and
Thomas finished out their pew. Except for Rose, the penguin among peacocks, they
were not wearing black—probably didn’t own anything in such a somber color, but
they were all—including Carrie—dressed with dignity, though her brown and peach
ruffled dress looked a little like peaches floating in a bouillabaisse.
The biggest surprise was Mickey, since with him it was
always couture potluck, but he had managed to put himself together for the
event he thought of as a musical funeral. This meant slacks, shoes, and a navy
turtleneck sweater, and a sport coat with suede elbow patches instead of a message
t-shirt.
Rose came out of her seat to hug Juliet. Once standing, she looked
a bit like she was wearing a tent that had pulled up its stakes and rolled
through some moss, but it was a chic cashmere tent in basic black and anyway
she was short enough for her strange green fringed hem to go
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