The air was chill, but there was no wind. A Unitarian minister from Boston chatted solemnly near the graveside with the two women Melody Haines had roomed with. The tall one, Sue, glanced anxiously at her friend, whose face was a puff of sickness, and then over at the undertaker from Lawrence, whose assistants were arranging carpets of fake grass and belatedly camouflaging the hole with a stretch of cloth that resembled felt from a pool table. The casket was still in the hearse. Noting her concern, the undertaker said, “Not to worry.” She left her friend with the minister and trod over hard ground to where Sergeant Dawson stood with the collar raised on his topcoat, his hands poked deep into the pockets. “Who are these people?” she murmured. Her arms dangled. “No one seems to care.” “You could be wrong,” he replied softly, his gaze drifting discreetly from stiff-necked Paige Gately to Attorney Rollins, whose stance was stoical in the shadow of Rita O’Dea, blown up in a fur coat and matching hat.
