That was not the end Camilla Lyman had predicted for herself. In her mind, her passing would be an operatic affair, and her funeral would be Wagnerian in its scope.

The way Camilla Lyman saw her last farewell, it would begin with a low growl rumbling down Seventh Avenue, echoing off the Beaux Arts façade of Macy's. At first it would hardly be noticeable against the din of taxis and buses. It would almost be drowned out by the belligerent chirp of police cars and the petulant howl of ambulances shouldering their way along 34^th Street —just one more sound in the gurgling cauldron of noise that is midtown Manhattan in late winter.

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A hot dog vendor might be the first to notice it. He'd look up stunned from his stainless steel vat of steam, peer through the sweet incense of roasting peanuts and in some obscure South Asian dialect he'd blurt out: "A plane!"

Outside of Madison Square Garden

Then everyone would see it. Outside Madison Square Garden, men in tuxes and overcoats, women in evening gowns, their bodies adorned in gems and furs, would clutch their programs for the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show to their breasts and perhaps they'd let slip an admiring sigh. One or two might even wipe away a tear away as the low-flying plane circled slowly above the block.

They'd watch in awe as the earthly remains of Cam Lyman — her ashes — fluttered down from the plane like a mid-February snow flurry.

Even the dogs would be impressed. The pointers would point as the plane dipped its wings in one final salute, the salukis might howl and the Italian mastiffs would cock their heads in wonder. It would, she had thought, be a magnificent sendoff.

And it was all there in the middle of her last will and testament signed and sealed and filed with the probate court in Hopkinton, Rhode Island.

"I further direct that upon my death that my ashes be scattered above Madison Square Garden during the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show."

Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, prepping dogs for judging

It would be easy, say those who knew Cam Lyman, to get lost outlandishness of her life and the bizarre circumstances of her disappearance and death. It is, after all, a tale made for the tabloids, the youngest daughter of a prominent New England family living in that gray area between high society and low, haunted like Hamlet, by the ghost of her father, so much so that she altered her own appearance, even, perhaps her gender, in an effort to keep him alive. Her world was a world where altruism and opportunism collided at light speed with deadly results and, her story is certainly rife with all the key elements of a cheap novel, mystery, intrigue, suggestions of a dark betrayal and in the end, a murder most foul.

Yes, it would easy, say those who knew Camilla Lyman, to get lost in the peculiar details of her life and the bizarre and, in a way titillating details of her death. It is, even now, nearly 15 years after she vanished, a tantalizing mystery.

But that, they say, would be a tragedy. To those who knew her, the real story of Camilla Lyman's life is more than a sordid murder mystery. In a bizarre way its almost a morality play, the story of how one woman struggled to define herself, how she tried to escape the gilded world into which she was born, and even tried to shed the limits placed on her by her own sex and how in the end, it seems, she was punished for it.

If Camilla's death was a mystery, so was much of her life, and as tragic as her slaying was, perhaps her life was every bit as tragic.

It's worthwhile to note that the elaborate, operatic funeral Camilla Lyman had planned for herself never came to pass. Instead, her remains were buried in the old family plot not far from the sprawling estate outside Boston where Camilla Lyman had been born. Even in death, it seemed, Camilla Lyman could never break the chains that bound her to her heritage.

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