V is for Vengeance (Kinsey Millhone 22)

I took a seat in the last of the three rows, the only occupant in the line of seats on either side of the aisle. The temperature was on the chilly side and I picked up the hum of organ music so faint I couldn’t identify the melody. I was ill at ease, feeling all the more conspicuous because I was alone and had nothing to occupy my time. I opened my program and read the text, disappointed to discover it was a word-for-word duplication of the obituary I’d read the day before.

Audrey’s photograph was also the same, except this one was in color while the one in the newspaper was in black-and-white. She looked good for a woman of sixty-three. Her face had been smoothed by sufficient tasteful cosmetic work to take ten years off her age. Gone was the furrow between her brows, taking with it the “mad” or “sad” expressions that women are persuaded to erase. Better the blank, unmarked visage that bespeaks calm and eternal youth. Her hair was a darker shade than the blond I’d seen at Nordstrom’s, though the style was the same, short and brushed away from her face. She was nicely made up. Her smile revealed good teeth, but not so uniform as to suggest caps. She wasn’t that heavy, but she was short, probably five two or so, which meant that every extra pound counted against her.

The newspaper had cropped the photograph to a head-and-shoulders shot. What I saw here was the loose-fitting, claret-colored velvet jacket she wore. Her necklace was clearly costume jewelry, a strand of big stones that made no pretense of being precious. The glittering red clutch she held was shaped like a sleeping cat and looked like the very pricy handbag I’d seen at Nordstrom’s locked in a glass display case. Snitching it would have been quite the accomplishment.

The formal ceremony, spelled out on the facing page, had been reduced to a bare minimum: an invocation, two hymns, and remarks by a Reverend Anderson, with no church affiliation specified. I was unclear on the protocol. Was there a Rent-a-Reverend agency for folks who weren’t members of a proper congregation? I was worried William would want to attend the service and I was already casting about for an excuse.

The young woman sitting beside Striker said something to him and then rose from her seat. She left the room as though on tiptoe, wafting lily-of-the-valley cologne as she passed me and proceeded down the aisle. William was still engaged in an earnest conversation with Striker. What could he possibly have to say to him?

I risked a glance at the door, fearful that Audrey’s many nieces and nephews would appear, determined to make nice by chatting with the visitors, namely me. Aside from William and Audrey’s fiancé, there was not another soul in the room. It dawned on me that if her shoplifting accomplice appeared, I’d be the first person she’d see. I eased the program into my shoulder bag, slipped out of my folding chair, and went in search of a ladies’ room.

As I passed Tranquility, I paused to read the name on the easel. Visitation for Benedict “Dick” Pagent was from 7:00 to 9:00 that night with a second visitation from 10:00 to noon on Wednesday, and services Thursday morning at the Second Presbyterian Church. The room was spacious and gloomy. Table lamps were turned off and the only light was the block slanting in from the hall, broken by my shadow as I peered in the open door. A similar arrangement of wing chairs and a matching sofa occupied the area to my right. Glancing to the left, I caught sight of an open casket on the far end, a man’s body visible from the waist up, so still he might have been carved in stone. I pictured a bit of scene setting before the relatives arrived; lamps turned on, music made audible, anything to suggest he hadn’t been lying there alone. I backed up and continued down the hall.

Around the next corner, I saw a small informal sitting room with an adjacent kitchenette, perhaps intended for the immediate family if they were in need of privacy. Restrooms marked M and W were just to the left. The ladies’ lounge was immaculate, a two-stall affair with a faux marble counter, two undermounted sinks, and a prominently displayed No Smoking sign. I smelled cigarette smoke and it didn’t take a professional to spot the haze wafting up from one of the stalls.

I heard a toilet flush and the young woman I’d tagged as Striker’s daughter exited the stall. No cigarette in hand so she must have tossed it in the john. She glanced at me briefly and offered a polite smile as she crossed to the sink, turned the water on, and washed her hands. Along with the blazer and white T-shirt, she was wearing jeans, tennis socks, and running shoes. Not exactly funeral garb, but an outfit I’d have felt comfortable in myself.

I went into the other stall and availed myself of the facilities, hoping to delay my return to the viewing room until more mourners arrived. I expected to hear the hall door open and close, but when I emerged the woman was leaning against the counter, lighting another cigarette. I resisted the urge to point out the error of her ways. I suffered the same conflict at the bird refuge, watching tourists feed bread scraps to the ducks when a Please Don’t Feed the Birds sign is posted at the site. While I’m willing to allow visitors the benefit of the doubt, I’m always tempted to say, “Do you speak English?” or “Can you read?” in slow, clear tones. I haven’t done it yet, but it does irritate me when citizens ignore plainly posted municipal codes.