4

April's colleagues were moving in a compact group toward the parking lot. The pale young man in the black jacket had disappeared. Below the crest of the front lawn, Isobel and her crew were pulling away from the curb, and the Boughmobile was already moving toward the stop sign at the end of the street. John's neighbors stood near a long line of cars parked across the street, wistfully watching Isobel and the officials drive away.

Stony with rage, John Ransom stood with his parents at the top of the steps. Fontaine and Hogan stood a few yards from Tom Pasmore and me, taking everything in, like cops. I was sure I could detect in Hogan's face an extra, ironic layer of impassivity, suggesting that he had thought his superiors' speeches ridiculously self-serving. He spoke a few words without seeming to move his lips, like a schoolboy uttering a scathing remark about his teacher, and then I knew I was right. Hogan noticed me looking at him, and amusement and recognition briefly flared in his eyes. He knew what I had seen, and he knew that I agreed with him. Fontaine left him and moved briskly across the dry lawn toward the Ransoms.

"Are you going with us to the crematorium?" I asked Tom.

He shook his head. In the sunlight, his face had that only partially smoothed-out parchment look again, and I wondered if he had ever been to bed. "What is that detective asking John?" he asked me.

"He probably wants him to see if he can identify the victim from Livermore Avenue."

I could almost see his mind working. "Tell me more."

I told Tom about Grant Hoffman, and a little color came into his face.

"Will you go along?"

"I think Alan Brookner might come, too;" I looked around, realizing that I had not yet seen Alan.

"Come over any time you can get away. I want to hear what happens at the morgue."

The front door opened and closed behind us. Leaning on Joyce Brophy's arm, Alan Brookner moved slowly into the sunlight. Joyce signaled to me. "Professor Underhill, maybe you'll see Professor Brookner down to the car, so we can start our procession. There's deadlines here too, just like everywhere else, and we're scheduled in at two-thirty. Maybe you can get Professor Ransom and his folks all set?"

Alan hooked an arm through mine. I asked him how he was doing.

"I'm still on my feet, sonny boy."

We moved toward the Ransoms.

Paul Fontaine came up to us and said, "Four-thirty?"

"Sure," I said. "You want Alan there, too?"

"If he can make it."

"I can make anything you can set up," Alan said, not looking at the detective. "This at the morgue?"

"Yes. It's a block from Armory Place, on—"

"I can find the morgue," Alan said.

The hearse swung around the corner and parked in front of the Pontiac. Two cars filled with people from Ely Place completed the procession.

"I thought the mayor gave a wonderful tribute," Marjorie said.

"Impressive man," Ralph said.

We got to the bottom of the stairs, and Alan wrenched his arm out of mine. "Thirty-five years ago, Merlin was one of my students." Marjorie gave him a grateful smile. "The man was a dolt."

"Oh!" Marjorie squeaked. Ralph grimly opened the back door, and his wife scooted along the seat.

John and I went up to the front of the car. "They turned my wife's funeral into a sound bite," he snarled. "As far as I'm concerned, fifty percent of their goddamned bill is paid for in publicity." I let myself into the silent car and followed the hearse to the crematorium.