All Night Long by Jayne Ann Krentz Page B

isn’t Irene Stenson. I heard you were back in town.”
    The speaker had one of those harsh, irritating voices that somehow always manages to rise above the background noise. Irene recognized it instantly although it had been seventeen years since she had last heard Betty Johnson’s uniquely grating tones. A searing memory set her heart pounding.
    She stood with Aunt Helen in the shadow-drenched vestibule of the Drakenham
Mortuary and looked at the crowd in the parking lot. The pouring rain had done
[_nothing to dampen the _]
    curiosity of the residents of Dunsley.
    “Vultures,” she whispered.
    “Everyone in town knew your parents and they know you.” Helen gripped Irene’s
[_hand. “It was inevitable that they would all come to the service.” _]
    Ben Drakenham, the funeral director, had not been pleased with Helen’s choice of
cremation for Hugh and Elizabeth Stenson. Irene knew that was because it cost
considerably less than the full casket-and-burial arrangement that he preferred to
sell.
    Her elderly great-aunt had made the decision for reasons other than price,
however.
    “Headstones in the local cemetery will be lead weight, drawing you back to this
time and place, Irene. Tour parents would not have wanted that. They would want
you to feel free to get on with your life.”
    She had accepted her aunt’s wisdom, but privately she wondered if Helen had
made the right choice. Headstones might have served as touchstones, providing
her with some tangible links to the past that had been ripped from her.
    Every seat in the funeral home’s small chapel was filled that cold, rainy day. But
Irene was sure that the majority of those present had come to gawk and gossip, not
to mourn her parents.
    Betty Johnson had made certain to get a ringside seat at the service. Now she and
several other people hovered just beyond the front door, waiting to offer their
phony condolences and meaningless platitudes.
    The car that waited in the drive seemed as distant as the moon.
    “Come, Irene,” Helen said quietly. “We will get through this together.”
    Irene drew a deep breath and squeezed her aunt’s hand very tightly. Together they
went down
    the steps. The crowd parted before them.
    Helen acknowledged the expressions of sympathy with a regal nod. Irene stared
[_straight ahead _]
    at the car.
    They were only a few feet from the vehicle when she heard Betty Johnson’s voice
[_rising above _]
    the hushed murmurs of the crowd.
    “Poor little Irene. Bless her heart, she’ll never be normal, not after what
[_happened….” _]
    Irene picked up a head of romaine lettuce with exquisite care and turned slowly to face the big-haired, sharp-featured woman behind her.
    “Hello, Mrs. Johnson,” she said politely.
    Betty gave her a superficial smile. “I hardly recognized you. You look so
different
.”
    “So normal, do you mean?”
    Betty went blank. “What?”
    “Never mind.” Irene put the lettuce into the cart and gripped the handle. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a number of things to do.”
    Betty regrouped and tightened her grip on the shopping cart handle. “Must have been a dreadful shock, finding poor Pamela Webb the way you did.”
    With her peripheral vision, Irene watched two other shoppers halt their carts a short distance away. One woman was making a show of choosing carrots. The other picked through a pile of baking potatoes as though searching for one made of solid gold. Both had their heads cocked in a way that indicated they were listening intently.
    “Yes, it was a shock,” Irene said. She steered her cart around Betty Johnson.
    “I heard that nice Luke Danner was with you when you found the body,” Betty said, swinging her cart around in hot pursuit. “You’re staying out at the lodge, aren’t you?”
    “Yes, I am.” Irene wheeled the cart around the end of an aisle and plunged between rows of shelve illed with six-packs of beer and bottles of wine.
    She chose a modestly priced white wine