Expecting to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

The reverend spoke calmly, in a soothing voice. He was beloved by his congregation, a pillar of the community, and was always front and center at many charitable events. He’d been the preacher at First Methodist for over fifteen years, raised his kids here, and never been relocated by the church, which was a bit unusual, but maybe reflected his deep ties to the community.

The Tophmans were both vocal about their boy being a “good son, a good Christian boy,” nearly echoing the very words that Mary-Beth Delaney had used to describe her daughter, Simone: “a good girl.”

Maybe, Pescoli thought, staring at the sullen kid. Or, maybe not. Rather than pray when his father suggested they all bow their heads in prayer, Bryant Tophman, wide-eyed, studied the toes of his black cowboy boots.

“Our children have been taught the way of the Lord,” Janie Tophman had said to Pescoli after the interview at the station, when they’d been walking out past Joelle Fisher’s desk. Pescoli remembered the conversation clearly, even though she’d been trying to avoid Joelle, who was still going on and on about a baby shower. “Our older children have proved that to be true,” Janie said as she brushed a nonexistent piece of lint from the bodice of her dress.

“Now, Mother, there’s no reason to brag,” the reverend had responded with a soft, amused chuckle.

“I’m just saying,” Janie had gone on as they walked through the doors. “Both Barbara Jane and Boyd are upstanding members of their community. Married. Children. Boyd followed in his father’s footsteps into the ministry and has his own congregation down in Boise. Barbara is a stay-at-home mom who homeschools.” Janie had beamed with pride, her chest swelling. The older children were at least a dozen years ahead of Bryant, so Pescoli thought he might have been an “oops,” but she’d never say as much, especially considering her current condition.

Even so, she’d been left with the feeling that Bryant was very efficiently pulling the wool over his parents’ adoring eyes.

“See anything?” Alvarez asked in a whisper as she crossed the patchy parking lot and joined Pescoli.

“The usual. Same kids that were at Reservoir Point to start with. It’s like déjà vu all over again,” she said quietly, “and then there’s the production crew. Barclay Sphinx’s crowd.” She hitched her chin to a spot on another rise, where cameras were rolling and Fiona Carpenter was buzzing around, trying to look somber, but clearly more interested in camera angles and lighting. Lucky was planted near her, standing with his hands together, never letting any member of the crew out of his sight for long. Michelle, for once, wasn’t at his side.

“Not the press?”

“They’re here.” Pescoli motioned toward a guy with a shoulder cam, and what appeared to be a female reporter standing closer to the church, near a laurel hedge running alongside the building. Manny Douglas was in the congregation, front and center, listening raptly to the reverend’s speech and probably recording every word. And, as expected, Sheriff Cooper Blackwater was standing near the edge of the mourners, his hawkish features tight, lips compressed, gaze sliding over each person in the congregation.

“How were things in Missoula?”

“Veronica Palermo thinks Donny Justison is a god. If he needs an alibi, she’s going to provide it.”

“Great,” Pescoli muttered sardonically.

“Yeah.”

As the sermon wore on, Pescoli caught sight of Michelle hurrying from the street, where she’d obviously just parked her car. She was in heels and a short dress, her gaze searching the throng. She spied Luke and waved, then quickly started weaving through the packed mourners toward him.

“We’ve got ourselves a three-ring circus under the guise of being a vigil for Destiny Rose,” Pescoli said dryly.

For the better part of a week, Pescoli had been doing a slow, steady burn. It had started the night she’d returned home and Bianca had admitted that she had agreed, through Lucky’s urging, and with his parental permission, to do the damned reality show. Later tonight, they’d begin filming while the rest of the town, under Mayor Justison’s guidance, was preparing for Big Foot Daze, which had come to be through a quickly convened meeting of the city council where Sphinx had spoken and agreed to host the celebration over Labor Day. That would be pushing things, as it was already August, but the mayor had been thrilled and declared, through an article in the Mountain Reporter, that the event would help the economy, create jobs, and put Grizzly Falls on the map.

For what? Pescoli thought. Big Foot Capital of Montana? Already, she was seeing signs that it was happening. A few statues of the creature that had been tucked away collecting dust were now front and center in storefronts.

The hype was already beginning.

And Pescoli hated it.

Despite her ex-husband’s pleas and Barclay Sphinx’s interest in her “story line” and “character development,” Pescoli had avoided meeting with the producer. She’d stepped away from Bianca being involved only because her daughter had been adamant, and Lucky had supported her a hundred and fifty percent. Pescoli had even bitten her tongue when she’d wondered what was in it for Lucky. She wanted no part of it for herself, though. Let Bianca deal with her father on this one.

Fortunately, Sphinx had been out of town for a few days, so all Pescoli had to do to ignore him was refuse his calls and not return them. Easy deal. She was too damned busy. Not only did she hear the clock ticking toward her ever looming delivery date, but as the days passed, she felt frustrated and stymied in the homicide investigation.

Not that she wanted Bianca involved at all.

“Maybe you’ve gotta let go a little, just let this happen,” Santana had told her a few days earlier. “Roll with it.”

They’d been standing in the kitchen, he with a beer, she with a damned sparkling water, as they’d tried to find something from the refrigerator to put together for dinner. The dogs, hopeful a crumb could fall their way, had been milling at their feet.

“Roll with it?” Pescoli had repeated as she’d pulled out a third of an extra-large pizza left over from the night before. “That’s your suggestion?” She dropped the pizza, still in its oversized cardboard box and smelling of garlic, onions, and cheese, onto the counter.

“I don’t see how you can fight it.”

“Pretty sure I can.”

“But is it worth it? You’ve got a big case to work out and, like it or not, the baby’s coming.” He touched her on the belly and she slapped his hand away. She was spoiling for a fight, irritated to the back teeth at his attitude about Bianca, Big Foot, and especially her ex.