casket. She’d dreaded seeing Arthur’s wasted body in an open coffin.
She opened the service with the Our Father, a prayer Violet and Blossom had both approved, then launched into a short speech.
“Arthur Zerling was one of those rare businesspeople who cared about his family, his friends and his colleagues,” she said. “You’ve had the pleasure of knowing him longer than I have. Mrs. Zerling has asked that you share your memories of Arthur today. She will begin with hers.”
Helen sat next to the podium where she could watch Violet. Arthur’s daughter had already refused to talk about her father. “I loved Daddy,” she said. “But I don’t think I could say anything without crying.”
Blossom rose gracefully, took the podium’s microphone and said, “I knew my husband for less than a year. Arthur was kind, loving, generous—”
Violet made some sort of sound—a sniffle? A snort?
Helen wasn’t sure what it was, but she saw Margery’s gloved hand grip Violet’s wrist. Blossom did not seem to notice. She continued smoothly, “I thought that fate, which brought us together, would allow us more time. But that was not to be. I—” She stopped, dabbed her eyes with a black lace handkerchief and said, “I am too sad to say any more. But your memories of Arthur will be a comfort to me.”
The widow glided softly back to her seat. Helen wondered if she should sympathize or applaud that speech. Where the heck did she get a black lace handkerchief?
Two sober-suited businessmen followed Blossom. Bob, a portly man with a face like a slab of rare roast beef, praised Arthur’s integrity.
Roger, the second one, said, “I agree with Bob. Arthur was a man of integrity in the boardroom—and on the golf course, where even the best men are tempted to cheat. Arthur played by the rules. You’ve seen those hospital billboards that say, ‘Outlive your golf foursome.’ Well, I’ve outlived my golfing partner of twenty years. I’ll miss you, buddy.” He slapped the casket as if it were Arthur’s back. The waxy flowers trembled.
As Roger sat down, a man in an ill-fitting brown suit, white shirt and striped polyester tie nervously took the microphone. At first, he mumbled, but his voice grew stronger as he spoke. “Name’s Jack,” he said. “I worked for Mr. Zerling for fifteen years.”
Jack looked nervously at the crowd, gulped twice and said, “When my missus got cancer, I was having trouble making the co-pays. I was going to sell the house to raise money for her treatment, when the cancer doctor’s office called and said not to worry about those payments. Mr. Zerling had paid for her treatment. My wife is alive today because of him. Thank you, Mr. Zerling, for saving my Leann.”
Jack sat down next to a thin woman in a ruffled black dress with a purple silk rose at the neck. She patted his hand.
Helen felt a flutter of panic when she saw a dark-haired man push his way up front. This had to be Uncle Billy, the man Violet had warned her about. Uncle Billy looked exactly the way Violet had described him. He was five eight with suspiciously black hair, a self-important manner, a potbelly and a perpetual smile, even at a funeral.
He was still elbowing his way to the podium. Blossom seemed oblivious to the approaching disruption. Violet leaned forward in her seat, tensed for trouble. Helen caught Margery’s eye, and the landlady gave a single nod. She was ready.
Violet had predicted that Uncle Billy would “wear something awful like mustard golf pants or an orange plaid jacket.”
She was right. His red Hawaiian shirt was a riot of blue parrots. His shirt matched the grog blossoms on his nose. Lime green shorts exposed knobby knees and varicose veins. Uncle Billy’s outrageous outfit seemed to shout at the somber funeral-goers.
He grabbed the microphone and hung on to the podium as if he were seasick. Helen could smell the alcohol fumes from where she sat.
The microphone gave a shrill blast of feedback. He waited it out, then said, “I never thought I’d see old Art lying down on the job.” Uncle Billy grinned and paused for laughter. The stony silence would have stopped a more sensitive—or sober—person. He steamrollered ahead.
“When Art called me from India and said he was getting married, I told him, ‘Go for it.’ I’d introduced him to Honeysuckle at Florida State. He loved her. We all knew that. He took care of her when she was sick. I told him, ‘Art, Honeysuckle has been gone for two years now. Life goes on.’
“When he got back from that cruise, I saw the new Mrs. Zerling. I had no idea Art had bagged a looker. He had to pop Viagra like popcorn to keep her happy.”
Helen heard gasps from the audience. Blossom sat frozen. Violet started to get out of her chair, but Margery held her back.
Helen stepped forward to pry the microphone from Uncle Billy’s hand before he said anything worse, but he was too quick.
He gave a hideous grin, then said, “Art died riding a great little filly. No man could ask for more.”
“Thank you, Billy,” Helen said, pushing him toward the aisle.
Bob and Roger, Arthur’s friends and partners, stepped forward and escorted Uncle Billy back down the aisle as if he were a felon. They shoved him into a seat, then stood next to him.
Most of the mourners were shocked into silence, but Helen heard a few gasps. Blossom looked as if she’d been turned to stone.
Helen ended the service with Psalm 90 and the hopeful words: “‘Make us glad according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted us, and the years wherein we have seen evil. Let thy work appear unto thy servants, and thy glory unto their children.’”
Margery had a comforting arm around Violet. The big woman leaned against Helen’s landlady. Blossom seemed oblivious to anything but her own grief.
“Mr. Zerling will be buried at Evergreen Cemetery,” Helen said. “The service is private. Mrs. Arthur Zerling hopes to see you all at her home for the reception.”
The pallbearers advanced to carry Arthur Zerling to the hearse, as the undertakers dismantled the quivering mound of flowers. Blossom followed the casket out of the room, head bowed. The mourners filed out behind her.
Helen followed them, Margery and Violet at her side. The funeral director steered them toward the waiting limousine. Helen collapsed gratefully into her dark leather seat and closed her eyes. Her head ached from the strain and the raw emotions.
Margery and Violet slid onto the bench seat across from her and the door closed with a quiet click. “What did I tell you?” Violet said. “I knew Uncle Billy would pull one of his stunts.”
“Helen handled him beautifully,” Margery said.
“And that woman—”
“Was on her best behavior,” Margery said.
“My daddy’s dead,” Violet said, her voice filled with wonder. “He’s not coming back. I knew he was dead, but I really felt it at the funeral when I saw his casket.”
“That’s how grief works sometimes,” Margery said, patting Violet’s hand.
“It hurts,” Violet said. “I miss him so much. It’s like a physical pain.”
“It may take a while,” Margery said. “But you’ll start remembering all the good things you did together. Then his loss won’t hurt so much.”
“It will stop hurting when that woman is in jail for Daddy’s murder,” Violet said.
CHAPTER 10
Arthur Zerling’s polished casket was slowly lowered into the yawning grave by a machine. Instead of a hymn sung by the mourners, the machine hummed softly while Helen read a verse from Saint Paul. She wondered how
