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“I won’t forget.”
“Okay, sweetheart, sleep tight.”
“You too.”
Theodosia took Earl Grey out into the backyard and stared at the sky as her dog snuffled around. The clouds had scudded off somewhere, and now stars glittered brightly in the blue-black sky. Which suddenly reminded her of the glints of glass that had been removed from her scalp. Shuddering, she turned, called to Earl Grey, and they both walked back inside.
Upstairs, as Theodosia got ready for bed, brushing her hair very gingerly, she thought about Osgood Claxton’s funeral tomorrow. And wondered where it was being held.
A quick check on her iPhone and she found Claxton’s obituary, which listed his service at nine o’clock tomorrow morning at the Unitarian church on Archdale Street.
Theodosia thought about this for a few minutes, then walked into her closet and picked out a nice black skirt suit. With its sedate, tailored jacket and straight skirt, it was perfect camouflage for a mourner who was hoping to unearth a few more bits of information.
14
This was for investigative purposes only, Theodosia told herself as she climbed the steps of the Unitarian church this sunny Wednesday morning. She’d tossed and turned all night, wondering if she had the nerve to show up today. Turned out she did. In fact, it was the first thing that popped into her head when she woke up. Well, that and her Jeep. After a gulped breakfast of Darjeeling tea and an almond croissant, she called the tea shop and told Haley she’d be late because of Claxton’s funeral. Then she drove her Jeep to the dealership and got a cheery assurance from Clark, the service manager, that they could have the back window fixed by five that night. Filled with trepidation, she drove one of their loaners—a Jeep Compass with a loosey-goosey transmission—to the church.
So here she was, edging into a magnificent Gothic structure that, in its first iteration, had been used as quarters for the British militia during the Revolutionary War. Then there were a series of renovations that went on until the eighteen fifties when the church was remodeled and Gothified (Theodosia’s term) to replicate the Henry VII chapel at Westminster Abbey.
Theodosia slipped into a pew that was third from the back, hoping she wouldn’t be recognized.
Turned out she needn’t worry about that. Because even though the press was there in full force—newspaper people and TV reporters with their cameramen had crowded in—their undivided attention remained strictly on the dignitaries who were attending the service. Standing on tiptoes, peering over heads, Theodosia recognized the mayor, two aldermen, a couple of city council members, and a judge.
She wondered if they were attending as allies of Claxton, were showing the flag in hopes of protecting their own reputations, or were assuring themselves that a divisive and sometimes feared adversary was really and truly dead. She figured it might be the latter.
A string quartet, seated at the front of the church, began playing a slow, somnolent version of Barber’s “Adagio for Strings” as Osgood Claxton’s casket was wheeled down the aisle by six pallbearers. It was a showy affair, a large rosewood casket with shiny brass fittings and covered with an enormous spray of white roses, the pallbearers dressed in black tie. Weird but striking.
Walking behind the casket was Mignon Merriweather Claxton. She wore a black dress that was almost but not quite a cocktail dress with a short veil tucked in her upswept hair. Delaine Dish walked with Mignon, also looking somewhat theatrical in a black beaded top and short skirt. Both women teetered along on black high-heeled stilettos, neither looking particularly sad.
As the entire procession made their way down the center aisle, accompanied by a somber-looking funeral director, one of the men in front of Theodosia turned to the man next to him and said in a stage whisper, “What a complete sham. Claxton wasn’t one bit religious. If he bowed his head in prayer, how would he get his hand in your pocket?”
The other man, with a crooked, knowing smile, whispered back, “He’d find a way.”
As the funeral director seesawed the casket into place at the front of the church, Lamar Lucket slipped into a seat across the aisle from Theodosia. And just as Theodosia wondered what other surprises might be in store, Ginny Bell walked in and quietly took a seat behind Lucket.
When the music concluded, the minister walked to his podium. Bowing his head, he said a few choice words about the hereafter then ceded his place to the mayor.
The mayor glanced around, put on his half-glasses, and pulled a paper out of his jacket pocket. He then proceeded to deliver a five-minute eulogy on Osgood Claxton that was as bland, carefully worded, and circumspect as anything Theodosia had ever heard. Almost as though he were tiptoeing around a slumbering rattlesnake.
Two more people got up to speak, there were a few more prayers, and then the minister gave a final benediction. In concluding his words, the minister invited the mourners to join Mrs. Claxton for a reception at Petit Montrouge, a small French café just down the block.
As Theodosia exited the church with the rest of the mourners, she decided not to go to the reception because she didn’t have time. Then she saw Ginny Bell heading that way, wondered what her motive was, and decided it might be interesting to find out.
Theodosia didn’t have to wait long. After going through a short buffet line and getting a French crepe loaded with strawberries, she headed for a seat at a nearby table. That’s when the fireworks started.
Mignon, hands planted firmly on hips, told Ginny Bell that she wasn’t welcome here. Ginny Bell fired back that she was as welcome as anyone else.
“You little guttersnipe,” Mignon shouted. “You tried to ruin my life. Get out of here before I throw you out.”
“I’ll go when I’m good and ready,” Ginny Bell said in a haughty voice.
“I said leave!” Mignon cried.
Ginny Bell curled her lip and laughed out loud.
“Jackson!” Mignon turned and shouted to one of the pallbearers who was standing nearby. “A little help would be nice.”
Jackson, a red-faced man of about fifty, shuffled toward Mignon. He was clearly reticent about getting involved.
