A Dangerous Fiction by Barbara Rogan

Author:Barbara Rogan [Rogan, Barbara]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780670026500
Amazon: 0670026506
Barnesnoble: 0670026506
Publisher: Viking Adult
Published: 2013-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

Five weeks after Rowena’s murder, on a crisp autumn afternoon, we held her memorial in the concert hall of the New York Society for Ethical Culture. The society was housed in a beautiful old limestone building overlooking Central Park, in the heart of the neighborhood Rowena had loved. Originally Molly and I had planned to use the social hall, which seated 280, but it soon became clear that this would not suffice, and we switched to the 800-seat auditorium. Color-coded tickets had been distributed. Rowena’s friends and colleagues were seated in the orchestra and mezzanine, among them a sizable Hollywood contingent, representatives of the various causes and charities that Rowena had supported, and the Mayor of New York, to whom she had been a generous donor as well as a friend. Pellucid Press was of course there in force, from the publisher to the salespeople, all looking suitably grim. A writer who sells millions of copies a year supports many people besides herself, but their sorrow was personal as well, for Rowena had known and cultivated just about everyone in the company. Many writers had attended, friends and protégées of Rowena’s as well as clients of mine and Molly’s who’d turned out in a show of support and solidarity. The balcony was reserved for Rowena’s fans, several hundred of the thousands who’d applied for seats. They’d gathered from all around the country and the world, almost all women, dressed in black for the occasion.

And somewhere, among all these mourners, all these dear friends and colleagues, was Rowena’s killer. I felt it, a small seed pearl of malice hidden somewhere in the room.

I wasn’t the only one who thought so. There were uniformed police on the door and plainclothes detectives milling about inside, Tommy Cullen among them. We exchanged nods when our eyes met; nothing more. I hadn’t seen him since our late-night stroll down memory lane, which turned out to be two separate lanes.

I sat in the front row, between Molly and Rowena’s sister, Janet Hubbard. On her other side sat her son, Chris, a newly minted lawyer dressed in a black Brooks Brothers suit. Molly and I had met the whole family when we flew to Kansas for the funeral. We’d stayed at the farmhouse, at Janet’s insistence, and were treated like visiting royalty. Janet’s black dress was dowdy and frayed at the collar, and her figure had settled into what Mma Precious Ramotswe would have called a traditional build. But her face and smile were so like Rowena’s that people coming up to pay their respects froze in momentary shock.

Molly and I had come early to see to the arrangements, although in truth, Lorna, hustling about with a clipboard, had everything well in hand. The auditorium looked beautiful. Huge urns of calla lilies, black-eyed Susans, purple trachelium, and brilliant orange roses anchored the corners of the stage; on the podium was a smaller bouquet of autumn flowers from Molly’s garden. I could smell their earthy, pungent scent from where we sat.

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