The Silver Crest on the Casket Was Only the First Lie

“And Dr. Baird?”

“Not answering.”

Julian walked to the window. Outside, security lights illuminated the gravel drive and the bare branches beyond it.

“He signed the death certificate,” Julian said.

Nora said nothing.

“He examined Dad Wednesday morning. Malcolm was there. My mother was there. The funeral director was there later. Everyone says Dad was dead.”

“But he wasn’t.”

“No.”

Julian pressed his forehead to the glass.

Nora filled the kettle. The action felt absurd, but Julian’s hands were shaking and she did not know what else to do with hers.

“Tea?” she asked.

He laughed without humor. “Is that what you do when rich families put people in coffins?”

“It’s what I do when someone is standing in my kitchen making the room uncomfortable.”

He looked at her.

“You sound like him.”

“That isn’t a compliment.”

“It wasn’t meant as one.”

The kettle began to rumble.

Julian sat at the table. “Tell me about Tuesday night.”

She did.

He interrupted twice. Once to ask why she had not called him, and once to say his father had not been confused enough to mistake a casket delivery for something harmless. The second interruption turned into an argument neither of them could finish.

“You think I should have known,” Nora said.

“I think someone should have.”

“You weren’t here.”

His mouth closed.

Nora regretted the sentence as soon as she said it. Julian lived in Boston and worked in commercial architecture, though Arthur described his job as drawing expensive cubes for people who hated curtains. Father and son had not spoken for three weeks before the memorial. Everyone on staff knew it. Rich families considered privacy sacred until they needed witnesses to their unhappiness.

Julian looked toward the dark window.

“No,” he said. “I wasn’t.”

Nora poured the water.

He accepted the mug but did not drink. “The man in the photograph. Have you seen him before?”

“No.”

“The boathouse is ours.”

“I know.”

“Dad hadn’t gone down there in months.”

“He went six days ago.”

“With help.”

They looked at each other.

Julian set the mug down. “The photograph was inside the case?”

“Under the flap.”

“What else did you see Tuesday?”

“A black drive. Papers.”

“What kind of papers?”

“I didn’t read them.”

“You didn’t look?”

“No.”

“My father handed you a locked case in the middle of the night and you didn’t look?”

“He trusted me not to.”

Julian’s expression sharpened. “He trusted you with something he didn’t trust me with.”

“That sounds like a problem between you and him.”

He stood so abruptly that tea sloshed across the table.

Nora stepped back.

Julian stared at the spill. The anger went out of him, leaving embarrassment.

“I’m sorry.”

She gave him a cloth.

He wiped the table with small, furious motions.

After a while he said, “Malcolm took the case.”

Nora stopped beside the sink.

“You saw him?”

“I saw it under his coat when the paramedics came in. I didn’t understand what it was then.”

“Did you tell the detective?”

“No.”

“Why?”

He folded the wet cloth into a square. “Because Malcolm has represented my family for thirty years. Because he held my hand at my sister’s funeral. Because when my father had his stroke, Malcolm slept in a chair outside intensive care for two nights. Because accusing him of stealing evidence from a coffin seemed insane.”

“My opening the coffin seemed insane.”

“Yes.”

“But I did it.”

“Yes.”

Julian placed the cloth on the table.

“I need to find out who the man in the photograph is before Malcolm knows we’re looking.”

“We?”

“You’re the only person my father tried to involve.”

“He didn’t involve me. He frightened me and then lied.”

“He was trying to protect something.”

“Or protect himself.”

“Same thing, with him.”

Nora leaned against the counter. Her body had begun to feel the day. Her shoulders ached beneath the apron straps. She had not eaten since breakfast, unless two peppermint candies from the chapel supply cabinet counted.

“I have a job,” she said.

Julian looked around the estate-owned apartment.

“Do you?”

The next morning, Celeste dismissed her.

She did it in Arthur’s study, where the untouched glass of water from Tuesday night still stood on a silver tray. Someone had moved it to the corner of the desk. A pale ring marked the wood beneath it.

Celeste sat in Arthur’s chair.

Malcolm stood near the fireplace with his hands behind his back. He had changed into a navy suit. Only the slight swelling beneath his eyes suggested that anything unusual had happened.

Nora remained standing.

“Your actions saved my husband’s life,” Celeste began.

The sentence had been prepared. Nora could hear its punctuation.

“I am grateful for that.”

“But.”

Celeste’s gaze cooled. “You entered a restricted area during a private ceremony, used a tool on a casket without authorization, removed family property, and concealed evidence from law enforcement.”

“I gave them the photograph.”

“After questioning.”

“I was trying to understand what was happening.”

“So are we all.”

Malcolm stepped forward. “This is not punitive. The estate cannot function with the press treating every member of staff as a potential source.”

“I haven’t spoken to the press.”

“Your silence has not prevented speculation.”

Nora looked at him. “You took the document case.”

His expression did not change.

Celeste turned her head. “What?”

“Julian saw it.”

Malcolm sighed. “Julian is under extreme emotional strain.”

“Did you take it?”

“I secured an item belonging to my client while strangers crowded around him.”

“Where is it?”

“With the appropriate legal representatives.”

“The police say it’s missing.”

“I am in communication with the police.”

Nora could not tell whether that was an answer.

Celeste pressed two fingers against the pearls at her throat. “This is precisely why you cannot remain here. You have inserted yourself into matters you do not understand.”

“Your husband inserted me.”

“My husband was heavily medicated and cognitively impaired.”