“Mildred would approve,” said Osborne, handing it back to her. “Blunt. To the point. And wasn’t that what Mildred was all about?”
Fifteen minutes before the funeral Mass was to begin, the church was half full. Frances peered through the curtains in the anteroom. “Oh-h-h, my gosh—look how many are here,” she said. “Do you think they’ll have enough lunch for all these people?”
As the casket moved down the aisle, Osborne was pleased to note that St. Mary’s was almost packed. Only a few pews at the very back remained empty. The crowd was quite a mix: youngsters with parents, men and women in business suits, truck drivers, maintenance workers, the entire staff from the insurance office down the street from the shop, elderly folk. Every Loon Lake resident who had ever needed a box of diapers, peanut butter, dish soap, cigarettes or a late night snack when all other stores were closed seemed to be there.
“Oh,” Frances was breathless as she started the walk down the aisle behind the casket, “Mildred would be pleased.”
She looked up at Osborne who said, “Yep, she might have even cracked a smile.”
The Mass and the memorials that followed were the talk of Loon Lake for the next week. To Frances’ great surprise, four people walked up to the podium to share their memories of fierce Mildred.
First, the Mayor spoke of her contribution to the community; then, a middle-aged man said he owed his happy marriage to Mildred as she sold paper valentines when he was a kid, making it possible for him to buy one for the little girl who was now his wife. A young mother said her children learned to make change buying their penny candy from Mildred, and then there was the cook from the Loon Lake Café who knew where he could always get an extra dozen eggs at five a.m.
The Mass and memorial service ended with Father Votruba inviting everyone for lunch next door in the school cafeteria.
Lunch after a funeral at St. Mary’s, prepared by the ladies of the church, was a ritual that Osborne always enjoyed. It was a time to catch up with former patients and old friends as everyone piled their plates with fried chicken then sat down at the low tables built for children.
Frances appeared more relaxed as she set her plate down between Ray and Osborne. Ray, carrying a large box in his arms, had arrived a little late to the cafeteria.
“What’s he up to?” said Lew, nudging Osborne with her elbow.
“Don’t ask me,” said Osborne.
“Frances,” said Ray, “I understand that Mildred wished to be cremated, is that correct?”
“Yes,” said Frances, hesitant. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Sorry—why?” said Ray. “Oh, I know, you think I need the money for digging the grave?”
Frances nodded.
“Not to worry, Frances. We don’t dig graves this time of the year anyway.”
“Ah, Ray—” Lew waved a cautionary finger at him and Osborne knew exactly what she was thinking: no need for Ray to describe what happens to those poor souls who have to wait for a spring thaw before they are laid to rest. He had been known to embellish the details.
But Ray had something else in mind. He reached down for the box he’d carried in, set it on his chair and opened the top flaps. Getting to his feet, he paused, standing straight with his arms crossed until he had the attention of everyone in the cafeteria.
“Folks … Frances … I felt that we should have something very special for Mrs. Mildred Taggert. So I … personally … commissioned an urn that will be. most appropriate for our late friend.” He reached into the box and pulled out a dark brown shape that was over a foot tall and about eight inches wide. He held it high in each direction so everyone could see.
“This is a model of an all-brass raccoon that will be finished shortly for Frances to use to contain Mildred’s ashes. Now. hold on to your potatoes, everyone. I’ll set it over here for all to see.” He walked over to place it on the table near the guest book. “Frances, you choose where you would like to keep the urn but I was thinking it might go up on the shelf with the rest of Mildred’s collection. It’s up to you.”
Frances walked over to Ray and took the raccoon from his hands. She smiled at him and at all the people in the cafeteria. “Thank you, Ray,” she said. “Thank you, everyone for coming today. Just so you know, I’ve been told the shop can reopen next week. And, as you can see, thanks to Ray Pradt—Mildred will be there, too.”
As she sat down to finish her lunch, Frances smiled her crooked smile at Osborne and Lew. A smile crooked all right—but happy.
CHAPTER 33
That evening Osborne and Lew nestled beside each other in front of the fireplace at his house. She was taking Thursday off and he had persuaded her, without much difficulty, to let him cook that evening. It was a meal he could not damage: filet mignon medium rare, baked potato with sour cream and his specialty—Brussels sprouts with toasted almonds.
“Move closer,” he said, pulling her towards him. She had changed into the flannel pajamas that he gave her for her birthday. White with a blue pattern, she looked soft, even fragile as her face glowed in the light from the fireplace.
“Funny thing,” said Osborne as he put an arm around her shoulders, “for such an ugly event—and by that I mean Nolan Reece’s death—the difference it will make in the lives of more than a few people is not bad.”
“No,” said Lew, “it isn’t. And you’re right—that is ironic. I would like to have known that woman if only to understand her better.”
“That reminds me of Ray’s comment: it would have been nice to hear Jake Cahak’s side of the story.”
“Well, life never gives you all the answers, does it? Speaking of Jake, as I left the office today I had an email from Gina. They’ve located the computer that he was sending the credit card data to—it’s in a coffee house in Montreal. Looks like the connection knew
something was up when they didn’t hear from him in some sort of code they had. All parties have disappeared. The place is under surveillance but they’re ninety-nine percent sure they’re dealing with a very savvy Russian operation.”
“Hmm, can’t say Jake wasn’t willing to take a risk dealing with people like that.”
“No—though I wonder if he got the big picture.”
“I’m willing to take a risk or two, Lewellyn.”
“Really,” she grinned at him, “like riding horseback in panty hose?”
“No pantyhose.”
She laughed and laughed, then said, “I have new information—long underwear also works.”
“But it’s summer—it’ll be ninety degrees. Long underwear? I have a better idea.”
“Which is?”
“A Jeep. We only fish in places you can get to with four-wheel drive.”
“Oh. Okay. So what’s this risk you want to take?” “I love you.”
She was quiet. “Not sure I can match that.” “Not sure or don’t want to?” “Just. give me time.”
It was midnight when they turned away from each other. He gazed out the window beside his bed. The snow sparkled. He would remember this night. Those breasts. That moon.
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Published in Electronic Format by
TYRUS BOOKS
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Copyright © 2008 by Victoria Houston
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No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permissio
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eISBN 10: 1-4405-3159-5
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-3159-0
This work has been previously published in print format by:
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Trade Cloth ISBN: 978-1-932557-73-2
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Dead Hot Shot Page 19
