“Maybe one of your employees just dropped it by accident,” Manon suggested with a generous smile.
“That’s impossible!” the manager objected.
“You think it’s more likely that someone tried to open it?”
“Well, even if one of my employees was that incompetent—which is highly unlikely—the seal would be in pieces. And, like I said—”
“It’s broken, but still in place,” Manon finished his sentence.
“Where is my wife now?” Mr. Bartel asked.
“To compensate you for this, we have provided her with one of the best spots in the Columbarium. A beautiful cabinet in the third row from the bottom, across from a window with a view of the park. It’s one of the most expensive locations, but we will cover the difference in cost, of course.”
“You have twenty-four hours to find the miserable bastards who committed this shameful act!” Mr. Bartel shouted.
“Maybe it was just an accident,” Manon insisted. “Who would do something like that? And why? It doesn’t make any sense. Plus, Mom’s ashes weren’t ever left alone, not even for a second.”
“We have one lead,” the manager continued, ignoring Manon. “One of our gardeners noticed a man lurking around.”
“What happened after we left the mausoleum?” Mr. Bartel asked.
“The same thing that happens after every ceremony. As soon as the last guest left, one of our employees came to take Mrs. Bartel to her new home and close the doors. That’s when we realized what had happened.”
“Who was the last guest to leave?”
The manager shrugged. Manon decided not to mention that she was the last to leave with Thomas. Nor did she reveal that she had found him near her mother’s urn. The man who had generouslyagreed to replace the organist, who had played Debussy and Vivaldi’sGloriawith such emotion, and who had agreed to be her wingman all afternoon couldn’t have done such a thing. Though maybe he wasn’t just awkward. Maybe he was also clumsy, and he had knocked the urn over by accident. She imagined how scared he must have been afterward, and this put a smile on her face. Her father noticed her smirk, which only intensified his rage.
“I’m sure it was an accident,” Manon said again as she stood up. “You know what they say: There’s no crime without a motive. And what would the motive be in this case? Who wants to steal ashes? The idea is absurd!”
“Oh, so you’re a detective now?” Mr. Bartel said sarcastically.
“No, but if you hired one, they would come to the same conclusion. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to pay my respects to what’s left of my mother for the last time today, and then I’m going to get some fresh air. Don’t get too worked up, Dad. I’ll come over for dinner tonight. Now, where is this gorgeous space with the park view?” she said, her tone slightly mocking.
The Dignity Memorial manager called his assistant and asked him to take Ms. Bartel to her mother.
The man led her there in perfect silence and left without a word.
Manon found it soothing to look out her mother’s window.
“Alone at last. It’s strange, Mom, but I feel like you’re still here. The last few months, you didn’t say much more than you can now. I really hope you’re finally free. Free to go where you want, maybe even farther, as long as you come back to me every now and again. I’d give everything I have for you to hear me. My pianist knocked over your urn. Was that a little sign for me? Another one of your pranks, to let me know you’re yourself again? In any case, it looks like it worked out all right for you. This view really is nice.”
Mr. Bartel waited in the manager’s office for the gardener to arrive and explain what he’d seen. The man’s statement wasn’t particularly helpful. Early that morning, a man in his thirties, dressed in a black suit, had gone for a walk in the park and sat down on a bench. The gardener had thought it looked like he was talking to himself. Nothing too unusual, though, given their location. A little later, a young woman had come to fetch him.
“What do you mean, ‘fetch him’?” Mr. Bartel asked.
“They headed to the mausoleum together, just before the funeral began,” the gardener said.
“You need to find that man,” Mr. Bartel ordered.
“Sitting on a bench isn’t exactly a crime,” the manager ventured. “And this man seemed to be one of your guests.”
“None of our guests fit that description, but I’ll double-check the list as soon as I get home. I’ll expect answers from you tomorrow at the latest.”
Mr. Bartel left the office without saying goodbye to the manager or his assistant, or to the gardener. But he came back just minutes later with a new request.
Thomas had been unable to resist the urge to return to Davies Symphony Hall. He stopped for a moment on the steps, daydreaming of someday seeing crowds fight their way in to see him play. Then he headed toward Union Square, a large plaza bordered by fancy boutiques, art galleries, souvenir shops, and beauty salons—an oasis of luxury located just steps from O’Farrell Street, where homeless people slept on the sidewalk.
Thomas studied the column that stood in the center of the square. A Greek deity, balancing on one foot, pointed a trident toward the sky.
