Chapter 15

Vera knew that it was expected that she attend funerals—even as a child, she went along with her mother. Beatrice had always said it did no good to shield children from death. It was a part of life. But Vera did not think she would want Elizabeth anywhere near this place.

She heard a baby cry and turned to watch the mother scuttle off during the service. Maybe she had nobody to keep the baby. Her eyes met the other woman’s, and she made a connection with a sympathetic smile. Mothers knew what it was like to have a crying baby at a church service or concert. She was still amazed at how becoming a mother had opened her heart. Other mothers. Other children. Babies. She only wished that she could have more children—her heart was so full.

She brushed some lint off her black wool slacks. Her mother had rolled her eyes at her when she saw she was not wearing a dress. But Vera didn’t care. It was cold, and these days pants were every bit as appropriate as a skirt. She stood with the rest of the crowd as the family exited the room to go to the basement, where the food was already laid out, awaiting the bereaved family and other mourners.

Vera could not help but wonder if the murderer was in the crowd. She looked over those gathered. There was John DeGrassi, from the only Italian family she knew, a simple, hardworking shopkeeper. He owned the only general store in Jenkins Hollow. His eyes were heavy with grief, she decided. He was not a killer.

Then there was Shelly Martin, dressed in a dark floral dress, whose daughter, Christy, had recently gone off to school to study physical education. She was one of Vera’s best dancers but had decided against a career in the field. Smart cookie. Shelly had always had a bit of a dark side. She dyed her hair platinum blond and sported several tattoos. But could she kill someone?

Detective Bryant glanced toward Annie. He was watching her. Annie received much male attention everywhere she went. She was beautiful in a unique way—dark skin, high cheekbones, large brown eyes, thin, tall. Damn, she could have been a model. But she was too smart for that—you could see the brightness in her eyes.

Sheila’s arm bumped into Annie as she pushed her glasses back up onto her nose. Sheila had actually put some more make-up on this morning than her usual smear of lipstick. And she looked great in that navy blue suit. Sheila had the body of a twenty-five-year-old. Vera sighed. It was all those years of running, which Vera hated. How could anybody get excited about it?

“It’s not exciting,” Sheila had told her one day. “It’s that monotony that is a blessing. One foot in front of the other. That’s all I need to think about at that moment.”

The four women walked down the stairs together quietly—not much could be spoken, just felt. A young woman heinously killed. Her family was at a loss. You could see it in their eyes. All of them looked hollow.

A stab of fear shot through Vera. What if something like this were to happen to Elizabeth? How could she manage to survive? To go on living?

The service was over, and the crowd meandered to the basement of the church. Long card tables were jammed full of the usual wake food—pies, pasta salads, cakes, shrimp, a meat tray with ham and roast beef, several cheese platters, several types of chicken (barbecued, fried, baked), corn pudding, and turkey.

The wake was usually Bill’s favorite part of a funeral, but he was keeping Elizabeth and so he wasn’t here. The last funeral they had attended as a couple, they were still married, happily, or so she’d thought.

“Oh, look at that red velvet cake,” Beatrice said quietly as they moved into the food line.

“I can’t believe all this food,” Annie said, looking as if she were shell-shocked.

“Oh, this is nothing,” Vera said. “You should have seen the food at Maggie Rae’s funeral.”

“It’s part of our tradition,” Beatrice said.

Once all their plates were piled high, they were able to find seats together at one of the tables.

“How’s the scrapbook queens?” a male voice said behind Vera. She recognized it.

“Detective Bryant,” Sheila said. “We are fine. And you?”

“Just keeping an eye on things,” he said, looking at Annie. “How about you?”

Annie nodded after taking a bite of red potato salad.

“Don’t worry. I have her covered,” Beatrice said.

He laughed, his blue eyes lighting up and his dimples deepening. “Now, that worries me, more than anything.”

“You don’t look bad once you’re cleaned up a bit, Detective,” Beatrice said.

“Mama! For heaven’s sake,” Vera said.

He waved them off and then walked away. He was dressed in the same blue suit he’d worn for all the other recent funerals—it was probably custom-made. He was so broad at the shoulders and narrow at the hips, Vera imagined he couldn’t buy directly off the rack. His sandy hair was combed nicely for a change, she noted.

Vera bit into a perfectly seasoned piece of barbecued chicken. Now, these mountain folks knew how to barbecue a bird. Annie shoved a piece of shoofly pie, chock-full of molasses and brown sugar, into her mouth and chewed.

She grimaced. “Ahh,” she said. “What is this? It looked good . . . but—”

The next thing Vera knew, Annie was running outside for fresh air.

“Shoofly,” Beatrice said, smacking her lips after another bite of red velvet cake. “Someone should have warned her.” Sometimes it took a while for outsiders to develop a taste for this toothsome molasses and brown sugar pie. Not only was it sweet enough that it could make your teeth ache, but it also had a surprisingly spicy bite. Some folks just couldn’t handle it.