few minutes past 10:00 we joined the last group of stragglers entering the hotel and rode behind them on the escalator to the second floor auditorium. The doors remained open, which was a good thing, since the aroma of funeral flowers was overpowering. Quietly, we slipped into the crowded room and found seats in the back row just as the service began. As the usual eulogies and tributes were spouted by half a dozen of Girouard’s partners and business colleagues, I wondered at the absence of family speakers and turned to ask Ingrid, who sat beside me, about his relatives. I was unaware of any kin except his wife.
When I saw Ingrid’s face, I decided to save my questions for later. In contrast to the public figures who sat in the front of the room, dabbing ostentatiously and unnecessarily at their eyes with tissues, Ingrid was sincerely grieving, and why not? So absorbed had I been in the murder of a man with whom I was barely acquainted that I had failed to appreciate Ingrid’s feelings. Of course she grieved. She had been involved with Alain Girouard on a daily basis for years. They had shared triumphs and failures and gossip and jokes. They knew each other’s preferences and dislikes. She knew how he liked his coffee, whose calls he preferred not to take, and his taste in aftershave cologne.
Yet here she was, about to be ostracized by the firm to which she had devoted her loyalty and energies. She was suspected of the murder of the very man to whom she had catered for six long years. However that relationship had deteriorated recently, it had at one time been good. I patted her hand.
Looking around as discreetly as possible, I wondered how many other women in the crowd were genuinely grieving. Strutter had come up with the names of five women the other evening, and many of them were likely in attendance today. I wouldn’t recognize them, but Strutter and Margo would. I would ask them later. It seemed to me that most women would opt to stay away from the very public memorial service of a married man with whom they had once had a fling, but maybe not. A woman who still had strong feelings for Girouard , whether of affection or anger, might well make an appearance. In fact, when taken to the extreme, those feelings could be considered motives for murder.
As the speakers droned predictably on, my attention wandered to the front of the room where Vera Girouard sat in the front row on the aisle, as I did in my row. By leaning out just a bit, I had a fairly unobstructed view and took advantage of the opportunity to size up the only person who appeared at this point to have more motivation than Ingrid to murder Alain Girouard . A sleek, well-dressed fifty-something, Vera looked sad but completely composed, and I congratulated her silently for refraining from what would have had to be a hypocritical display of bereavement. She sat calmly, hands in her lap, as Bolasevich replaced Bellanfonte at the podium. The professional accolades, meticulously researched and prepared by the best writers among BGB’s latest crop of first years, continued to pour forth. If even half of what Girouard’s partners said were true, he had been an exceptional litigator.
Craning my neck as unobtrusively as possible, I peered at the occupants of the chairs next to Vera, but I could see very little of their faces, and family resemblances eluded me. The woman seated to Vera’s right was of an appropriate age to be a sister, but I saw no young people who might qualify as offspring. A very elderly man and woman, who appeared to be a couple, seemed to complete the family row.
My attention had seriously wandered, and I was startled by a smattering of nervous titters among the audience members. Bolasevich had apparently attempted to lighten the somber proceedings with what he thought was an amusing anecdote. I glanced at Vera to gauge her reaction, but her only acknowledgment of Bolasevich’s gaffe was a sidelong glance at her seatmate, who smiled
When I saw Ingrid’s face, I decided to save my questions for later. In contrast to the public figures who sat in the front of the room, dabbing ostentatiously and unnecessarily at their eyes with tissues, Ingrid was sincerely grieving, and why not? So absorbed had I been in the murder of a man with whom I was barely acquainted that I had failed to appreciate Ingrid’s feelings. Of course she grieved. She had been involved with Alain Girouard on a daily basis for years. They had shared triumphs and failures and gossip and jokes. They knew each other’s preferences and dislikes. She knew how he liked his coffee, whose calls he preferred not to take, and his taste in aftershave cologne.
Yet here she was, about to be ostracized by the firm to which she had devoted her loyalty and energies. She was suspected of the murder of the very man to whom she had catered for six long years. However that relationship had deteriorated recently, it had at one time been good. I patted her hand.
Looking around as discreetly as possible, I wondered how many other women in the crowd were genuinely grieving. Strutter had come up with the names of five women the other evening, and many of them were likely in attendance today. I wouldn’t recognize them, but Strutter and Margo would. I would ask them later. It seemed to me that most women would opt to stay away from the very public memorial service of a married man with whom they had once had a fling, but maybe not. A woman who still had strong feelings for Girouard , whether of affection or anger, might well make an appearance. In fact, when taken to the extreme, those feelings could be considered motives for murder.
As the speakers droned predictably on, my attention wandered to the front of the room where Vera Girouard sat in the front row on the aisle, as I did in my row. By leaning out just a bit, I had a fairly unobstructed view and took advantage of the opportunity to size up the only person who appeared at this point to have more motivation than Ingrid to murder Alain Girouard . A sleek, well-dressed fifty-something, Vera looked sad but completely composed, and I congratulated her silently for refraining from what would have had to be a hypocritical display of bereavement. She sat calmly, hands in her lap, as Bolasevich replaced Bellanfonte at the podium. The professional accolades, meticulously researched and prepared by the best writers among BGB’s latest crop of first years, continued to pour forth. If even half of what Girouard’s partners said were true, he had been an exceptional litigator.
Craning my neck as unobtrusively as possible, I peered at the occupants of the chairs next to Vera, but I could see very little of their faces, and family resemblances eluded me. The woman seated to Vera’s right was of an appropriate age to be a sister, but I saw no young people who might qualify as offspring. A very elderly man and woman, who appeared to be a couple, seemed to complete the family row.
My attention had seriously wandered, and I was startled by a smattering of nervous titters among the audience members. Bolasevich had apparently attempted to lighten the somber proceedings with what he thought was an amusing anecdote. I glanced at Vera to gauge her reaction, but her only acknowledgment of Bolasevich’s gaffe was a sidelong glance at her seatmate, who smiled
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