The morning dawned hazy and hot. By ten o’clock, St. Philip’s Episcopal Church was packed to capacity. The famous and infamous were there, as were those who had come to gawk at the famous and infamous, including South Carolina’s venerable United St
ates senator and a movie star who lived in Beaufort.
Some had never met Pettijohn, but deemed themselves important enough to attend an important man’s funeral. Almost without exception, most of those in attendance had disparaged the deceased when he was alive. Nevertheless, they filed into the church shaking their heads and mourning his tragic, untimely death. The altar was barely large enough to accommodate the plethora of floral arrangements.
At exactly ten o’clock, the widow was escorted to the front pew. She was wearing black from head to toe, unrelieved by anything except her signature string of pearls. Her hair had been pulled back into an unadorned ponytail, over which she wore a wide-brimmed straw hat that obscured her face. Throughout the service she kept on dark, opaque sunglasses.
“Is she hiding her eyes because they’re swollen from crying? Or because they’re not?”
Steffi Mundell was seated next to Smilow. Her question caused him to frown. His head was bowed and he appeared actually to be listening to the opening prayer.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t know you had a religious streak.”
She remained respectfully silent throughout the remainder of the service, even though she professed no religion. She wasn’t as interested in the afterlife as much as she was in the present one. She wished her ambitions to be realized here on earth. Stars in a heavenly crown weren’t her idea of achievement.
So, tuning out the scripture readings and eulogies, she used the hour to mull over the pertinent aspects of the case, specifically how she could use them to her advantage.
The case had been assigned to Hammond, but it was she, not him, who had placed a call to Solicitor Mason last evening. She had apologized for interrupting his dinner, but when she told him about Alex Ladd’s lie regarding her whereabouts Saturday night, he thanked her for keeping him apprised. She was satisfied that the call had earned her a few brownie points. Taking it one step further, she had assured their boss that Hammond probably would have given him this latest update sometime today… when he got around to it… intimating that Hammond wouldn’t have given it priority.
After what seemed as long as the eternity the minister extolled, the memorial service concluded. As they stood, Steffi said, “Now, isn’t that sweet?” From everyone clustered around Davee Pettijohn to pay their respects, she singled out Hammond. The widow embraced him warmly. He kissed her cheek.
“Old family friends,” Smilow remarked.
“How good of friends?”
“Why?”
“He seems reluctant to consider her a viable suspect.”
They continued to watch as Mr. and Mrs. Preston Cross also embraced Davee. Steffi had met the couple only once at a golf tournament. Hammond had introduced her to his parents not as his girlfriend but as his co-worker. She had admired Preston, seeing in him a strong, daunting personality. Amelia Cross, Hammond’s mother, was her husband’s direct counterpart, a small, sweet southern lady who probably had never expressed an independent opinion in her life. She probably had never formed an independent opinion in her life.
“See?” Smilow said. “The Crosses are Davee’s surrogate family since she has none here.”
“I guess.”
Because of the crowd, it took them several minutes to get outside. “What have you got against Davee?” Smilow asked as they made their way toward his car. “Now that she’s no longer on your list of suspects.”
“Who said that?” Steffi opened the passenger door and got in.
Smilow settled behind the steering wheel. “I thought Alex Ladd was your suspect of choice.”
“She is. But I’m not ruling out the merry widow, either. Can we have some A.C. please?” she asked, fanning her face. “Have you confronted Davee with her housekeeper’s lie?”
“One of my men did. It seems that Sarah Birch’s trip to the supermarket that day had completely slipped their minds.”
With exaggerated sincerity, Steffi said, “Oh, I’m sure that’s true.”
They drove several blocks before Smilow surprised her by quietly saying, “We found a human hair.”
“In the suite?”
“On the sleeve of Pettijohn’s jacket.” He glanced at her and actually laughed at her expression. “Don’t get too excited. He could have picked it up off the furniture. It could belong to any guest who has previously been in that room, or any housekeeper, room service waiter. Anybody.”
“But if it matches Alex Ladd’s—”
“You’re back to her, I see.”
“If it matches her hair—”