F Is for Fugitive

townspeople were no different. Some had moved away, a few had died. In the time I'd been here, I'd probably talked to the killer myself at least once. It was an affront somehow. I turned and looked back at the section of town that I could see. I wondered if someone in one of the little pastel cottages across the street had seen anything that night. How desperate could I get? I was actually contemplating a door-to-door canvass of the citizens of Floral Beach.
    But I had to do something. I glanced at my watch. It was after one o'clock. Tap Granger's funeral service was scheduled for two. He'd have a good turnout. The locals had talked of little else since he was gunned down. Who was going to miss this climactic event?
    I crossed back to the motel, where I picked up my car and drove a block and a half to Shana Timberlake's. She'd been out when I'd called this morning, but she'd have to be home now and dressing for Tap's funeral if she intended to go. I pulled in across the street. The little wood-frame cottages in her courtyard had all the charm of army barracks. Still no Plymouth in the driveway. Her front curtains were still as they had been before. Two days' worth of newspapers were now piled near the porch. I knocked at her door, and when I got no response, I slyly tried the knob. Still locked.
    An old woman stood on the porchlet of the cottage next door. She watched me with the baggy eyes of a beagle hound.
    "Do you know where Shana went?"
    "What?"
    "Is Shana here?"
    She gestured impatiently, turned away, and banged back into her place. I couldn't tell if she was mad because she couldn't hear me or because she didn't give a damn what Shana did. I shrugged and left the front porch, walking between the two cottages to the rear.
    Everything looked the same, except that some animal – a dog, or maybe a raccoon – had tipped over her garbage cans and spread her trash around. Very classy stuff. I climbed the porch steps and peered in the kitchen window as I had before. It seemed clear that Shana hadn't been home for days. I tried the back door, wondering if there was any reason to break in. I couldn't think of one. It is, after all, against the law, and I don't like to do it unless I can anticipate some benefit.
    As I went down the steps, I noticed a square white envelope among the papers littering the yard. The same one I'd been sniffing at the other day when I talked to her? I picked it up. Empty. Shoot. Gingerly, I began to sort through the garbage. And there it was. The card was a reproduction of a still life, an oil painting of opulent roses in a vase. There was no printed message, but inside, somebody had penned "Sanctuary. 2:00. Wed." Whom could she have met with? Bob Haws? June? I tucked the card in my handbag and drove over to the church.
    The Floral Beach Baptist Church (Floral Beach's only church, if you want to get technical) was located at the corner of Kaye and Palm streets – a modest-sized white frame structure with various outbuildings attached. A concrete porch ran the width of the main building, with white columns supporting the composition roof. One thing about the Baptists, they're not going to waste the congregation's money on some worthless architect. I'd seen this particular church design several times before, and I pictured ecclesiastical blueprints making the rounds for the price of the postage. A florist's truck was parked out on the street, probably delivering arrangements for the funeral.
    The double doors were standing open and I went inside. There were several paint-by-the-numbers-style stained-glass windows, depicting Jesus in an ankle-length nightgown that would get him stoned to death in this town. The apostles had arranged themselves at his feet, looking up at him like curly haired women with simpering expressions. Did guys really shave back then? As a child, I never could get anybody to answer questions like that.
    The interior walls were white, the floor covered in beige linoleum tile. The pews were decorated with black satin bows. Tap Granger's coffin had been placed down near the front. I could tell Joleen had been talked into paying more than she could afford, but that's a tough pitch to resist when you're in the throes of grief. The cheapest coffin in the showroom is inevitably a peculiar shade of mauve and looks as if it's been sprayed with the same stuff they use on acoustic ceilings to cut the sound.
    A woman in a white smock was placing a heart-shaped wreath on a stand. The