Five minutes later, Valerie had me completely outfitted. The skirt was mauve and lime green, patterned with pink and yellow lilies. The material was diaphanous and the hemline hit midcalf. Probably looked great on my sister in L.A., but I felt like a seventies shower curtain. The top was a stretchy little white cotton shirt with cap sleeves and lace around the neck. The shoes were pink strappy sandals with three-inch heels.
Never in my life had I ever considered wearing pink shoes.
I looked at myself in the full-length mirror and tried not to grimace.
“LOOK AT THIS,” Grandma said when we got to Stiva's. “It's a packed house. We should have gotten here sooner. All the good seats up front by the casket are going to be gone.”
We were in the foyer, barely able to push our way through the mourners who were spilling in and out of the viewing rooms. It was precisely seven o'clock, and if we'd gotten to Stiva's any sooner we would have had to line up outside like fans at a rock concert.
“I can't breathe,” Valerie said. “I'm going to be squashed like a bug. My girls will be orphans.”
“You have to step on people's feet and kick them in the back of the leg,” Grandma said, “then they move away from you.”
Benny and Ziggy were standing just inside the door to room one. If Eddie came through the door they had him. Tom Bell, the primary on the Ricci case, was also here. Plus half the population of the Burg.
I felt a hand cup my ass and I whirled around to catch Ronald DeChooch leering down at me. “Hey, chicky,” he said, “I like the flimsy skirt. I bet you're not wearing any panties.”
“Listen, you dickless sack of shit,” I said to Ronald DeChooch, “you touch my ass again and I'll get someone to shoot you.”
“Spunky,” Ronald said. “I like that.”
Meanwhile, Valerie had disappeared, swept away with the crowd surging forward. And Grandma was worming her way up to the casket ahead of me. A closed casket is a dangerous situation, since lids have been known to mysteriously spring open in Grandma's presence. Best to stay close to Grandma and keep watch that she doesn't get her nail file out to work at the latch.
Constantine Stiva, the Burg's favorite undertaker, spotted Grandma and rushed to stand guard, beating Grandma to the deceased.
“Edna,” he said, nodding and smiling his understanding undertaker smile, “so nice to see you again.”
Once a week Grandma caused chaos at Stiva's, but Stiva wasn't about to alienate a future customer who was no spring chicken and had her eye on a top-of-the-line mahogany, hand-carved eternal resting box.
“I thought it only right that I pay my respects,” Grandma said. “Loretta was in my seniors group.”
Stiva had himself wedged between Grandma and Loretta. “Of course,” he said. “Very kind of you.”
“I see it's another one of them closed-coffin things,” Grandma said.
“The family's preference,” Stiva said, his voice as smooth as custard, his expression benign.
“I guess it's best, being that she was shot and then all carved up in the autopsy.”
Stiva showed a flicker of nervousness.
“Shame they had to do the autopsy,” Grandma said. “Loretta was shot in the chest and she could have had an open casket except I guess when they do the autopsy they take your brain out and I suppose that makes it hard to get a good hairdo.”
Three people who had been standing nearby sucked in air and speed-walked to the door.
“So what did she look like?” Grandma asked Stiva. “Would you have been able to do anything with her if it wasn't for the brain thing?”
Stiva had Grandma by the elbow. “Why don't we go into the lobby where it's not so crowded and we can have some cookies.”
“That's a good idea,” Grandma said. “I could use a cookie. Nothing interesting to see here, anyway.”
I followed them out and on the way stopped to talk to Ziggy and Benny.
“He's not going to show up here,” I said. “He's not that crazy.”
Ziggy and Benny shrugged in unison.
“Just in case,” Ziggy said.