Chapter 13

Nothing like a good funeral, even if it was a couple of hours away in Jenkins Hollow.

Beatrice dressed in her Sunday best, a dark blue suit, and placed a strand of pearls around her neck. Real pearls, mind you, and it was getting to the point where funerals were the only occasions she could wear them.

Not that she liked to see grieving. But what Beatrice did like was to see a community come together in fellowship and offer condolences. A keen observer of humanity—or at least that was what she thought about herself—Beatrice loved to see the spectacle of clothes and food at many of the local funerals. Southerners always brought out the best for such events.

She’d missed Maggie Rae’s funeral as she had just had surgery to remove a knife from her neck. Vera was supposed to report back to her, but her observations were weak.

“What did Violet wear? The same black dress she always wears? She’s been wearing it for thirty years. I swear.”

“Well,” Vera had said. “Hmm. I can’t remember what Violet was wearing. It seems to me it was dark. Yes. Maybe it was black. Oh, Mama, who cares?”

Beatrice was not so vacuous that she cared only about what people wore. But she made note of certain individuals’ clothing and what it said about them. For example, Violet’s husband was one of the wealthiest men in the town, yet she didn’t appear to ever buy anything new. Her funeral dress was a black shirtwaist dress, her spring and summer “wedding” dress was a light blue silk, and her fall and winter, a red wool. The same dresses for thirty years. Or at least that was how it appeared.

So Beatrice wondered if Violet chose not to buy anything new or if her husband refused to buy anything for her. And what was that all about?

And then there was Mathilda Rogers, who always brought a “little” something to wakes. Damn little. Once she brought a plate of a dozen chocolate chip cookies to a wake. A dozen? Why did she bother? Why bring anything at all if she was going to be so stingy about it?

She mentioned it once to Vera, who said that maybe there was a financial problem.

“Humph. I don’t think so. She plays bingo like it’s going out of style, and I’ve seen her spending money at the hair salon,” Beatrice had said.

“Really, Mother, don’t you have anything better to do?”

“Don’t you ever notice anything about people? How do you function in the world?” Beatrice had said. Why couldn’t Vera be more like Annie, who noticed even more than Beatrice?

Vera had waved her off, as she often did, as if she were exasperated with her old fool of a mother. Damn her.

A car beep sounded at the front of Beatrice’s house. She stood at the door with her purse slung around her arm. Ready to go.

She mumbled as she crawled into the backseat of the car, next to Annie, who was looking elegant in black, with chunky gold earrings and a lovely gray angora scarf around her neck.

“Hey,” Annie said.

“Hey back. How are you?”

Annie shrugged. “Fine, I guess.”

“I’m fine, too, Bea,” Sheila said, grinning, from the front passenger seat of the car.

“Who asked you, scrapbook queen?” Beatrice said, turning away from her. Her relationship with Sheila was one of consistent, but good-natured banter. Her mother, Gerty, was Beatrice’s best friend—she died several years ago from breast cancer. “Listen, Annie, do you think we can get some clues today?”

Annie started to talk, but Vera interrupted.

“Mama! This is a funeral. Behave yourself.”

“I’ve been going to funerals since you were a glimmer in your daddy’s eye. Don’t tell me how to behave at a funeral. I just thought it might be a good place to observe the family, see if anybody suspicious shows up,” Beatrice said.

Vera stopped the car at a red light. “Well, don’t go around questioning people.”

“I am on a story,” Annie said. “But I certainly would be very careful about who I spoke to and what I asked.”

“Oh, Annie, I’m not worried about you,” Vera replied. “It’s Mama. Sometimes I never know what’s going to come out of her mouth—or who she is going to try to shoot.”

Sheila laughed. Annie smiled.

Beatrice folded her arms and leaned them on her purse, where, they all knew, she kept her gun. She looked at Annie and shrugged.