“But you're a good five inches shorter than Mrs. Williams!" he said in a tone that verged on hysteria. "It'll spoil the whole look. And what about your robe? You'll be tripping over it in the processional.”
Most of the church offices were closed and locked, and a hurried search didn't turn up needle and thread but did reveal a stapler and cellophane tape. Jane managed a decent job of temporarily shortening a robe while Ed Shurran stood over her, wringing his hands. She then draped and started arranging the display table as the choir members started arriving. As she was stashing the last empty carton under the table, Albert Howard came over to her. "I hear you're standing in for Suzie Williams. Poor old Ed has his knickers in a twist about it.”
Jane chuckled at the English phrase. "With great reluctance, which is growing greater every second."
“Nothing to it. You're behind me in the processional and beside me on the risers. Come on. I'll walk you through it."
“That's awfully nice of you."
“No, it's self-defense. If I hang around the robing room, he'll try to sell me insurance. He always does.”
They practiced their measured walk down the aisle and onto the stage. Albert showed her a list of the songs, all of which were familiar to her. She wouldn't have too much trouble mouthing the words. "... And you just follow me out," he finished. "Want to run through it again?"
“No, I think I've got it. Albert, I'm so grateful. This isn't going to be half as complicated as I thought.”
They retired to the robing room with the others. Ed Shurran was talking to someone about collision and liability, and Albert Howard winked at Jane. When it was time, they lined up, and Jane had a momentary urge to hang onto the back of Albert's robe so she wouldn't lose him. "I'll get Suzie for this," she muttered under her breath.
Despite stage fright, Jane made it down the aisle and onto the risers without disgracing herself or the choir. Once they were into the second piece, she had calmed down. By the fourth, she was actually enjoying herself. As little talent as she had, she loved music, and it was downright thrilling to be standing in the center of all those lovely, powerful voices. It was especially nice that she was next to Albert. He had an awfully good voice. She'd always enjoyed his singing.
What a silly thought that was, she realized. She'd never heard him sing alone. Only as an anonymous part of the choir. And yet, there was something so familiar in the tone, it was as if she'd listened to him many times before. How perplexing. When would she have heard him?
Perhaps he'd had solos in church—no, she couldn't recall one.
“For unto us a child is born...." the choir sang.
Jane was growing more puzzled. It was almost like knowing something once well understood but not being able to quite reach out and mentally grasp it. She concentrated on listening. The slight throatiness on the low notes, the infinitesimal quaver in the higher range, the continuity of the notes, without any obvious breaking for breath.
The choir paused between songs. The director, his back to the pews, grinned hideously, reminding them to smile. Jane grinned back.
“It came upon a midnight clear....”
She stared at the back wall of the church, the better to focus her sense on listening. Maybe he just sounded like someone else. It would drive her crazy for days if she didn't figure it out. Somebody famous, maybe. She started mentally perusing a list of her favorite vocal tapes she had all over the house and car.
“...to touch their harps of gold ..." Suddenly Jane knew. He sounded just like Richie Divine!
But how absurd! Why would—how could Fiona's second husband sound so much like her illustrious first husband? Had he worked for years at sounding that way or—!
Glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, Jane studied those nondescript features. The hair was the wrong color, but that didn't mean a thing. Hair could be dyed or bleached. The pot belly? Age. The receding chin? The mustache added to the impression, which might have had help from plastic surgery. The mustache itself completely concealed the upper lip.
Albert Howard didn't sound like Richie Divine.
He was Richie Divine.
Twenty-three
It took all the self-control she had to keep from turning and saying, "I know who you are! I love your records." Had they not been on stage in front of a lot of people, she would have.
As the last piece dragged on, however, she started having second thoughts. It was impossible. Richie Divine had been dead for years and years. He died when Katie was a baby. Fifteen years ago this month. Everybody knew that. But did they? Everybody knew his plane had crashed. She remembered her conversation with Mel about it. He'd said the plane and passengers were blown to so many pieces that nothing was identifiable. Was it possible that Richie Divine hadn't been a passenger on that plane?
If the man standing beside her actually was Richie Divine, he obviously hadn't died over the ocean when the plane exploded.
But why? How?
She almost missed her cue to step down. Albert Howard jiggled her arm, and she came to with a start and followed him down the risers. Trailing him, she noticed he was getting a bald spot on the top of his head. How sad that this golden idol of youth should have become paunchy and middle-aged in the obscurity of his own shadow. That was what he'd done--lived all these years as the pitiful second husband of Richie's wife. How terrible that must have been for him, to go from being an international superstar to an unknown nerd.
She almost spoke to him in the robing room, but didn't know what to say. It crossed her mind, too, that she had no business questioning him or even revealing that she'd inadvertently caught on to a very private secret. As she hung up her robe and went to repack the sample sale items, she recalled something Fiona had said about someone trying to get Albert to contribute to a project. The gist of the story was how insulted Albert had been at the implication that it was really Richie Divine's money, not his. Jane now understood the painful irony of the incident. Poor Albert must have felt the insult doubly.
The minute she got home, she phoned Shelley. "I made coffee cake this afternoon," she said seductively. "If you'll come over and eat some with me, I'll tell you something that'll knock your socks off."
“I'm not dressed.... Both socks?"
“Both socks," Jane assured her.
A moment later Shelley came in the kitchen door with a long car coat on over her nightgown and robe. She was wearing a pair of Paul's big snow boots, and there were curlers in her hair. "This had better be good.”
Jane peeked around the corner. Mike was watching MTV over the top of his chemistrybook. Todd was building a Lego space station. She knew Katie was upstairs on the phone. She put the coffee cake and plates on the table, and when they were seated, she said, "The National Enquirer would set me up for life for this information, which neither of us are ever going to tell anyone. Agreed? I don't think anybody but one other person in the world knows."
“Has this bazaar baked your brain? What are you babbling about?”
Jane lowered her voice and leaned forward. "Richie Divine didn't die. He's Albert Howard.”
“What!"
“Shhh. I mean it. I stood next to him in the choir tonight, and since I wasn't supposed to sing, I just listened. Suddenly it hit me that I'd heard him before. I swear it's true, Shelley."
“Jane, as your friend—"
“I know, you think I've gone bats. But I haven't. Listen, that plane crash he was in—the plane blew up in midair, and the bodies were never found. Mel told me. His sister had been to the last concert, and he remembered the details.”
Shelley leaned back, nonplused. "But why pretend to be somebody like Albert Howard?"
“I've been thinking about that. There was a story that the mob was after him for testifying against them. Mel told me that, too. I'd either forgotten that or never known it."
“That's why they planted a bomb or whatever on the plane," Shelley said. "I read about it in a magazine."
“Well, if he'd missed the plane for some reason, it would have been logical to go along and play dead. It was the Only way to be safe from them in the future. If they'd known he'd lived, they'd have just kept after him until they succeeded."
“Oh, Jane. I don't know—"
“Shelley, if you'd heard him singing, you'd believe it. His voice is deeper now that he's older, but I swear it's the same man."
“But they don't look a thing alike.
“No, but neither does Sharon Kellick look like herself."
“Who in the hell—? Oh, yes. That woman down the block who had the face-lift, and somebody called the police on her for housebreaking in her own house."