Chapter 4 - THE FUNERAL IN ADVANCE
The Red Cliff ferry terminal was bustling with early-morning commercial traffic when the barge docked at 8:15 AM.
I waited until the technician drove the first waste truck off the ramp before slipping out from under the tarp and dropping onto the wet asphalt behind a row of parked tractor-trailers.
I looked at my reflection in the side mirror of a semi-truck.
My face was pale, my eyes bloodshot, my dark hair wild and dried with lake salt. A faint bruise had blossomed along my jawline where Julian’s elbow had clipped me as he ripped off the life jacket.
I didn't look like a high-society wife anymore. I looked like a ghost.
Good. Ghosts move unseen.
I walked two miles down Highway 13 to a small, greasy-spoon diner near the edge of town. Inside, the air smelled of bacon fat, coffee, and diesel exhaust. A small television mounted in the corner above the counter was tuned to the local Duluth news channel.
I sat in a high-backed vinyl booth in the back, pulling my jacket collar up to hide my jawline.
A young waitress set a thick mug of black coffee on the table. "What can I get you, honey? You look like you've been caught in the weather."
"Just the coffee for now, thanks," I murmured, keeping my voice low. "And a payphone directory if you have one."
"Payphone’s by the restrooms in the back," she said, nodding toward a dark hallway.
Before I could stand, the news anchor's voice on the television rose above the diner's chatter:
"Tragedy on Lake Superior this morning as search teams continue to hunt for thirty-year-old Clara Vance, wife of Vance Maritime Chief Executive Julian Vance. Authorities report Mrs. Vance fell overboard late last night during an unexpected squall near the Apostle Islands..."
The screen shifted to a live field report from the Bayfield marina.
Julian stood in front of a cluster of microphones, wearing a black trench coat, his face pale, his eyes glistening with well-rehearsed tears. Eleanor stood beside him, draped in a black mink coat, holding a white lace handkerchief to her eyes.
"Clara was... she was the light of my life," Julian’s voice wavered, echoing through the small diner. "She was struggling with severe anxiety recently, and despite my warnings, she went near the stern during rough waters. I jumped in after her, but... the current was too strong. I couldn't save her."
He buried his face in Eleanor’s shoulder as the reporters called out questions.
Eleanor stepped toward the microphones, her voice smooth, tragic, and utterly composed.
"We ask for privacy during this devastating time for our family," Eleanor said into the cameras. "A memorial service will be held this Tuesday at St. Paul’s Cathedral in Duluth. In lieu of flowers, the family requests donations be made to the Vance Maritime Safety Foundation."
I watched the screen, my hands resting around the warm coffee mug.
Severe anxiety. Jumped in after her. A memorial service on Tuesday.
They had already written the obituary. They were already clearing the legal runway to claim the insurance policy and file the corporate probate documents that would absorb my father's remaining stock options into their holding company.
I stood up, walked to the back hallway, and dropped a quarter I had found in my jacket pocket into the slot of the payphone.
I dialed a private, unlisted number I had memorized four years ago.
The phone rang three times before a sharp, gravelly voice answered:
"Arthur Vance."
"Arthur," I said quietly. "It's Clara."
Silence hung over the line for four long seconds. I could hear the rustle of legal papers stopping on the other end.
"Clara?" Arthur’s voice dropped an octave, laced with a dangerous, razor-sharp intensity. "Where the hell are you? The news says you're at the bottom of Lake Superior."
"I swam to Pine Island," I said. "Julian pushed me. Eleanor watched."
Arthur let out a long, slow breath through his teeth. "I received the FedEx tracking confirmation twenty minutes ago. The drive is currently sitting in my secure dropbox at my Minneapolis office."
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"Good," I said. "Because they’re holding a memorial service for me on Tuesday."
"No, they aren't," Arthur corrected, a dark, cold smile evident in his tone. "Because you and I are going to audit their books in person tomorrow morning."
