P is for Peril (Kinsey Millhone 16)

Mrs. Stegler, from Pacific Meadows, sat just in front of me; brown suit, brown oxfords, and her mop of red curls. There were also numerous doctor types in dark suits and several elderly people I took to be Dr. Purcell's former geriatric patients.

On the other side of the aisle, Crystal and Leila were ushered to their seats in the first pew on the left. Crystal wore a simple black sheath, her tumble of blond hair giving her a look of elegant dishevel-ment. She looked tired, her face pinched, dark circles under her eyes. Leila had forsworn the outlandish in favor of the strange: a black latex tube top matched with a black sequined skirt. Her short white-blond hair stood out from her head as though charged with static electricity. Jacob Trigg, in a coat and tie, swung into the church on his forearm crutches. He eased into a seat on Fiona's side, near the rear. Anica Blackburn appeared and smiled at me briefly before she took her seat in the pew across from mine. There was the usual rustle and murmuring, an occasional cough. I checked my program, wondering how Crystal managed to get it printed up so fast. Altogether, we were looking at a scattering of hymns, a doxology, two prayers, a soloist singing Ave Maria, followed by the eulogy, and two more hymns.

A latecomer arrived, a woman with medium-blond hair whom I recognized belatedly as Pepper Gray, my favorite nurse. I watched her shrug out of her coat and tiptoe halfway down the aisle, where she paused while a fellow rose to let her into the pew. She walked as if she was still wearing crepe-sole shoes.

The minister appeared in a robe like a judge, accompanied by his spiritual bailiff, who intoned the corollary of a courtroom "All rise." We stood and sang. We sat and prayed. While all heads were bowed, I occupied my thoughts by reflecting on the state of my pantyhose and my unruly soul. I don't know why pantyhose can't be designed to stay in place. As for the state of my soul, my early religious training would have to be considered spotty at best, consisting as it did of sequential expulsions from a variety of church Sunday schools. My aunt Gin had never married and had no offspring of her own. After I was so rudely thrust into her care by the death of my parents, she fell headlong into parenting without any experience, making up the rules as she went along. From the outset, she labored under the misguided notion that children should be told the truth, so I was regaled with lengthy and unvarnished replies to the simplest of questions, the one about the origin of babies being my earliest.

My most unfortunate Sunday-school experience came that first Christmas in her care when I was five and a half years old. She must have felt some obligation to expose me to religious doctrine so she dropped me off at the Baptist church down the block from our trailer park. The lesson that Sunday morning was about Mary and Joseph, of whom I instantly disapproved. As nearly as I could tell, poor baby Jesus had been born to a couple of deadbeats, with no more sense than to birth him in a shed. When my Sunday-school teacher, Mrs. Nevely, began to explain to my little classmates how Mary came to be "with child," I was apparently the only one present who knew how far off the mark she was. Up shot my hand. She called on me, pleased at my eagerness to make a contribution. I can still remember the change that came over her face as I launched into the doctrine of conception according to Aunt Gin.

By the time Aunt Gin came to fetch me, I'd been set out on the curb, a note pinned to my dress, forbidden to say a word until she arrived to take me home. Fortunately, no blame attached. She made me a "sammich" of white bread and butter, filled with halved Vienna sausages out of a can. I sat on the trailer porch step and ate my picnic lunch. While I played croquet by myself in her tiny side yard, Aunt Gin called all her friends, spoke in low tones, and laughed quite a lot. I knew I'd made her happy, but I wasn't quite sure how.

When the minister finally stepped up to the pulpit, he made the sort of generic remarks that were safe for any but the most depraved decedent. The service finally ended and people began to file out of the church. I lingered near the door, hoping to catch Fiona before she left the premises. I wanted to set up a time to chat with her so we could sort out the details of our relationship. I finally caught sight of her, leaning heavily against Mel, who walked in tandem with her. Melanie must have known who I was because she shot me a warning glance as she guided her mother down the steps and out to the parking lot.

Anica touched me on the arm. "Are you coming back to the house? Some people are stopping by."

"Are you sure it's okay? I don't want to intrude."

"It's fine. Crystal told me to ask. We're at the beach."

"I'd like that."

"Good. We'll see you there."