Vera shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  On the day of Rosalie’s funeral, Stewart erected a barrier blocking off Millionaire’s Row to everyone except mourners. He stood there gesturing us through, while on the other side, a small group of reporters, mainly photographers, stood huddled beneath their umbrellas. One of them caught my eye. He was dressed in a black leather jacket similar to the one Dougie had described, thin with dark hair, probably around thirty. His easy smile slipped into a sneer as I slowly drove past.

  The line of cars parked in front of the Glass House was small, with no California or rental car plates that I could see. They had positioned their vehicles along the narrow road to have the most direct path through the rain to the massive front door. After all, nothing ruins a funeral like wet clothes.

  I pulled my keys out of the ignition, tossed them into a small purse, and stepped out of the truck into the gently spitting rain. Gwen was right behind me. She was dressed in a simple black linen shirt dress, the rubber boots on her feet taking away from her funereal appearance. Luckily, I had found one piece of appropriate black clothing in my closet: a knit dress I had bought at the winter sales in Paris several years ago. I glanced down at my feet. At least my leather flats looked better than the Wellington boots I had considered.

  “Let’s do this, Gwen,” I said.

  “Do we have to?” she asked grudgingly.

  It had taken quite a bit of coaxing to get her to accompany me this morning.

  “Yes, we have to.”

  “I didn’t realize until yesterday that the coroner had released her body, and she had already been cremated.”

  “Well, they did. Jason wanted to move forward with a memorial service as soon as possible.”

  We hurried through the rain to the open front doors. A young woman dressed in typical caterer’s gear, a white dress shirt, and black trousers pointed us toward the vast family room. Her face was unfamiliar. Jason must have brought in a catering firm from Victoria.

  As soon as we entered the hallway, the warm, patchouli fragrance of incense enveloped us.

  “It smells like Vera’s house,” Gwen muttered.

  We followed the fragrance into the family room. Someone had moved all of the furniture out to make room for the folding chairs that were now arrayed there. Two cedar tables had been placed directly in front of the massive glass windows.

  On the first table, an intricately filigreed blue and white ceramic jar sat alongside a framed photograph of a radiantly beautiful Rosalie. The second table was identical, except that it held a framed image of the Buddha. Red tapered candles were placed on either side of the pictures, along with platters of fruit and rice. Crystal vases held gently smoldering incense sticks surrounded by lush floral arrangements.

  “Look at all those flowers,” Gwen whispered as we slipped into a seat. “If Jason had those done on the island, Nan must have made a fortune.”

  Nan was our island florist. She worked out of her garage doing everything from weddings to funerals.

  “I don’t think we should be discussing profits at someone’s funeral,” I whispered.

  “I don’t know why not,” Gwen answered. “It’s the only good news to be had out of all of this.”

  I glanced at the chairs around me. In the front row sat Jason and Scott. A few seats down from them were Phil, with Brad Sixto sitting next to him.

  Brad? Why was he here? And sitting in the front row? Wasn’t that kept for family and close friends? Had he known her? Or was he merely there to help support Phil?

  Scattered amongst the mourners, I spotted Lesley and Ian sitting together, both in uniform. Anna, Michael, and Nate were seated with a woman I didn’t recognize.

  “Who’s that?” I nudged Gwen and pointed toward them.

  “That’s June Greenwood. She’s our provincial MLA.”

  Amongst those remaining were the Anglican vicar and his wife, Dougie, Shea, Vera, and what looked like Betty Wu and an older man, most likely her husband.

  Silence settled over us as three bald monks walked up to the tables and knelt facing them. They were dressed in identical robes, each dyed a saffron-gold color and draped with toga-like coverings of rich red fabric. One held a small tambourine-shaped drum. Another had brass cymbals that he began to clash together in a chiming rhythm. The monk holding the drum began twisting its long handle back and forth between his palms, causing the leather strings attached to it to beat against the taut surface. The three of them began to chant as if on cue, the sound echoing through the room’s cavernous space.

  The chanting continued, with ululal peaks and valleys, for approximately twenty minutes. When the last crashing note hovered on the suddenly still air, two of the monks moved to one side while the older one stood and turned to face the audience.

  The grey stubble on his newly shorn scalp brushed against the pockmarks of long-ago acne that was pitted across his cheeks. Settled in his narrow, some might say gaunt, face, two bright eyes surveyed us all. He smiled as our eyes connected, giving me a quick up-and-down inspection.

  Oh, he doesn’t miss much.

  “Good afternoon. My name is He Kyabje Khenzur Rinpoche Kachen.”

  His voice was not loud, but in his distinctive Nepalese accent, his directness reached across the room.

  “Sadly, I never got the chance to meet Rosalie Morgann. She sounds like a lovely person, much loved by her friends and fans.” He walked soundlessly in bare feet, pausing now and then to gather his thoughts. “Many in the West come to our faith looking for peace. They first find this peace in meditation. I have been told this is how Rosalie started her journey toward Buddhism. They then begin to ask questions to learn about our belief system. About who Buddha was, what he believed.” He chuckled to himself. “Don’t worry, I am not here to—what is it you call it?—proselytize. The purpose of a Buddhist memorial service is for the monks to pray for Rosalie’s soul. Not for us to try and get converts. We pray that the actions, or karma, Rosalie created in this life will return to help her as she goes through samsara, the cycle of birth, death, and reincarnation that leads to enlightenment.”

  “She better hope her karma didn’t return to help her,” Gwen whispered out of the side of her mouth.

  “Gwen!” I shushed her, “That’s a horrible thing to say!”

  “I will translate one of our prayers so that you can understand some of what we said here today. This prayer is from The Tibetan Book of the Dead:

  May I know myself forgiven for all the harm that I have thought and done.

  May I accomplish this profound practice of phowa, and die a good and peaceful death.

  And through the triumph of my death, may I be able to benefit all other beings, living or dead.”

  The room was silent, only broken by sobbing from the front row. Jason consoled a distraught Scott while Brad attempted to stop a furious Phil from getting to his feet.

  “She don’t need to be forgiven for anything!” he shouted as he finally wrenched himself free from Brad’s grasp and turned to face us. “Not anything! No matter what all you busybodies think! She was better than all of you.”

  He turned and stormed out of the room, Brad racing to catch up with him.

  As we all watched Phil storm across the front lawn with Brad in pursuit, Jason stood and moved toward the monk. “I’m so sorry for that outburst, Khenzur Rinpoche. He knew Rosalie when she was young and is distraught over her passing.” The monk bowed his head in understanding. “Thank you for coming today. I’m so glad you could do this on such short notice. Having a Buddhist ceremony would have meant a great deal to Rosalie.” He stopped to brush away a tear and gestured us all to our feet. “Everyone, please enjoy the refreshments that will be circulating in a moment as we share happy memories of Rosalie.”

  On cue, a team of neatly attired waitstaff spread amongst us, carrying trays of glasses and canapés.

  Gwen and I took a fluted glass of pale pink liquid. Gwen took a quick sip and wrinkled her nose.

  “Fruit spritzer. Not champagne.”

  I took a sip myself. “Of course. It’s a Buddhist memorial service, Gwen. Buddhists don’t drink.”

  “Whatever.” She turned to walk over to where Shea and Vera were standing with Betty and her husband. I trailed after her.

  “Hi, Gwen. You’ve met Betty before, haven’t you?” Shea asked.

  Gwen nodded. “Yes, at the emergency volunteer meeting.”

  “Well, this is her husband, Gordon.” The older man smiled, exposing a set of perfect white teeth. “They’ve retired here. They bought the house next door.”

  “Yes, we didn’t know Rosalie, but we’ve met Jason and Scott a few times,” Betty replied. “We thought it would be nice to come and pay our respects as neighbors.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the leather jacket-clad man striding across the front lawn toward Phil. He must have somehow gotten past Stewart. I gulped down the rest of my drink and thrust the empty flute at Gwen. “Gwen, hold this for me. I need to talk to someone.”

  I managed to reach them just as they met in the middle of the lawn.

  The young man grabbed at Phil’s shoulder, either unaware or uncaring of his emotional state.

  “Did you know Rosalie Morgann? Can you give me some details about her funeral?”

  “Leave him alone,” I skidded to a stop on the wet grass and yanked his hand off Phil’s shoulder. “He’s grieving, for God’s sake. Have some common decency.” I nodded for Brad to take Phil past us. “You get him out of here, Brad.”

  The young man swiveled toward me, a sneer once again spreading across his face. “Well, look who it is. Kate Thomas.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “Perhaps you should answer that for yourself,” he asked, gesturing toward his face.

  There was definitely something familiar about him, even though his face was partially covered by designer sunglasses—the last thing one needed with the weather these days. His skin was pale, and his black hair was left artistically long so that its moussed tendrils brushed his shoulders. Besides the black leather jacket, he wore a loose T-shirt over tight, straight-legged jeans. Doc Martens boots were on his feet, and he was enveloped in an aura of Dior Sauvage.

  Ugh, a Johnny Depp wannabe.

  “Don’t you recognize me, Kate?”

  His voice was thick with menace. It made the hair on my arms stand up.

  I decided to try another tack. “How do you know who I am? Have we met before?”

  He lowered his sunglasses to expose a pair of icy blue eyes filled with malevolent satisfaction. “Oh yes, Kate. We’ve met before.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “We have?”

  He removed his sunglasses and stared directly at me. “Yes, we most definitely have.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t remember you.” Something clicked in the back of my memory, making my palms tingle, but I just couldn’t place him. “Can’t you just tell me who you are?”

  He replaced the sunglasses on his face. “I don’t know about you, but I’d prefer to chat out of the rain. Perhaps we can move somewhere inside? Annie’s Bakery? Twenty minutes?”

  “Okay,” I replied cautiously. I was curious to find out who he was, even though the thought of having coffee with him made my skin crawl. There was something so sinister in his manner.

  “I’ll see you there.” He turned on his heel and dashed toward the cars.

  * * *

  I explained the situation to Gwen and figured out a way for someone else to give her a ride home before dashing back to the truck. I pointed it down Route 97 toward Harrow Village.

  Harrow Village held the ferry dock, the Lind Hotel, and Annie’s Bakery. Gwen had once told me their cinnamon buns were world-famous. I don’t know if that was true, but they tasted pretty damn good.

  Eighteen minutes later, I pushed open the door to the bakery. I instantly spotted him at a table near the windows. It wasn’t difficult; there were only a few people seated inside. That was the problem with a single-source economy: if the tourists didn’t come, no one got paid. There was definitely no trickle in this trickle-down economy. I grabbed a mug of coffee and a cinnamon roll from the counter and walked over to pull out a chair opposite him.

  The more I looked at his face, the more certain I was that I did know him. The problem was that I had no idea of his name or how I had come to know him. He wasn’t unattractive, with his slender frame and shoulder-length black hair, but the set of his mouth and the anger in his eyes was off-putting. He was around my age, early thirties, but the effect of the tousled hair and subtle black eyeliner felt like he was trying too hard. My palms began to tingle again.

  “Okay, I’m here. Now, will you tell me who you are?” I said as I took a bite out of my cinnamon roll.

  He was silent for a moment. “Jack Donahue.”

  Jack Donahue. I let the name cycle through my memory but still came up with nothing.

  “Sorry, I’ve still got nothing.”

  He sighed, his lips puckering in anger. “I used to go by John Donahue.”

  “Yes!” My hand smacked down on the tabletop as the pieces fell into place. “That’s who you are! John Donahue from Ryerson! You were in the same year as me, weren’t you? In the journalism program?”

  So that’s who he was!

  “Yes, that’s right.” He took a long sip from his cup of coffee.

  “It’s been a long time, John.”

  “Jack.”

  “Okay, Jack. What have you been up to?”

  “I’m based in Vancouver now. I work for CGN.”

  “CGN? That online celebrity news site? So you’re here covering Rosalie’s death?”

  He nodded his head. “Not quite up to your level of journalism, I’m afraid.” He glanced out the window at the rain. “Not that you haven’t come down a bit in the world.”

  I didn’t reply, feeling a momentary sting at his words. He wanted me to snap back at his intentional rudeness, that was obvious, but I wasn’t going to give him the pleasure. I just let his comment settle in the quiet air of the bakery and rest there for a few moments.

  “What is this about, Jack?” I asked after waiting long enough to see him begin to fidget with his coffee cup.

  “Oh, you know. Payback. Karma is a beautiful thing, isn’t it?”

  “Payback? Payback for what?”

  He took another long sip of coffee before looking straight at me. “Don’t pretend like you don’t remember, Kate.”

  “I honestly don’t remember, Jack. What are you talking about?”

  He snickered. “You know, that shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. Our final year at Ryerson. Everyone was getting resumés and portfolios ready, scrambling to head out into the working world and get a job.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “You were the editor of The Eyeopener.”

  My mind flashed back to the crowded, messy classroom where we had put together Ryerson University’s school newspaper.

  I nodded.

  “It wasn’t that surprising you got the job. You got most of the top prizes that year, didn’t you?”

  “Well, I don’t know about that…” I started.

  “You did. You got everything you wanted. Lots of friends, great grades. I suppose it didn’t hurt that your dad was the film critic for the Toronto Star. All the professors loved you—their golden girl journalist.” The sneering in his voice was toxic and angry. “That meant you got the special coups, didn’t it? All those little extra boosts that helped you get to the top.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jack.”

  He leaned over the small table, a flinch of fear reflexively moving me an equal distance away. “Like the story that made your career. Remember that story, Kate?”

  “The city hall story? The one about the mayor funneling funds to his secretary to keep her quiet about their affair?”

  He nodded his head in satisfaction. “Yeah, that story. The one that was picked up by all the major newspapers. You got to be interviewed on CBC, didn’t you? I guess it’s not surprising they offered you a job after graduation.” He paused, his voice deepening into fury. “The story that made you, Kate.”

  “Yes, of course, I remember that story. What I don’t remember is what any of this has to do with you!” My patience was slipping, anger seeping through the cracks to sharpen my voice.

  “Don’t pretend like you don’t know,” he laughed.

  “If you say that one more time, I swear, I’m going to walk out that door and never look back!”

  “Who brought in that story, Kate?”

  “It was ten-plus years ago. I’ve no idea.”

  “I brought it in, Kate. Me. I’m the one who put in all that research. I took it to Professor King so that I could have my moment. But he said it was too big a story for me, too important. I wasn’t skilled enough to do it justice. They needed to have the best on top of it, so they gave it to you.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “A huge story just drops into your lap, and you don’t ask any questions? You never tried to find out who discovered the story in the first place?”

  “I-I don’t know. I don’t think so. All I remember is getting handed it by Professor King.”

  “Memory can be tricky like that, can’t it? Easy to forget unimportant people.”

  “That is unfair!”

  “Unfair! You’re talking to me about unfairness! That’s rich.”

  I took a deep breath and tried to calm down. “It’s unfair to expect me to remember something that happened more than a decade ago.”

  “Yeah, well, I remember. Just like I remembered when I read that you’d been taken hostage in Afghanistan.”

  “I don’t want to talk about that.”

  He continued unabated. “Just your luck; you got rescued. And then you took a job out here on the West Coast, only to find your ex dead in the ocean. Now, I thought, she’ll get her due. Kate Thomas is going to find her ass in prison. But, no, you wriggled your way out of that one, too.”