an illustration in one of Gracie’s fairy tale books of the glass box in which Snow White was laid to rest after eating the poisoned apple. The casket itself appeared to be white-painted cast iron crafted to look as if it were draped with fabric.
Of all the many dead bodies Nell had encountered in her twenty-six years, Virginia Kimball’s was by far the most remarkable. Her unbound hair, so black it had to be either a wig or the product of dye, lay in sinuous ripples over the white satin pillow that cradled her head. Even in death, she was striking to look at, with her dramatically arched eyebrows, elegant cheekbones and powder-pale complexion. She’d been painted with stage makeup, Nell realized, right down to the kohl blackening her eyelids. The initial effect was of a lady who looked much younger than her forty-eight years—until one noticed the furrowed throat and slack jowls, the lines radiating from her eyes, the creases bracketing her crimsoned lips.
Not only were her cosmetics theatrical; her attire was, too. The dead actress wore a slim gown of silvery white satin with trailing sleeves and an ornate golden girdle, a medieval costume that echoed the fairy tale imagery. Garlands of daisies and wildflowers were strewn over her, and lotus blossoms all around her, giving the impression that she was floating on water.
Nell hitched in a breath when it came to her. She wasn’t Snow White at all. She was Ophelia.
Even death couldn’t keep Virginia Kimball from playing what had evidently been a favored role, that of the young woman whose love for Hamlet had driven her to drown herself in madness and despair. Nell couldn’t imagine an undertaker doing this of his own volition, nor was it likely to have been stodgy old Orville Pratt’s idea. Mrs. Kimball must have made her own arrangements ahead of time.
“Jesus,” Nell whispered, then sketched a hasty sign of the cross, appalled to have blasphemed in a church. Her cheeks stung when she noticed Dr. Gannett watching her from his seat on the altar; Protestants didn’t make the sign of the cross. He offered her a reassuring smile before returning his attention to his notes.
There was no kneeler in front of the coffin, so Nell merely clasped her gloved hands and murmured a prayer for the departed soul of Virginia Kimball. Unwilling, despite her discomfiture, to abandon the customs of her faith, she crossed herself again, to the accompaniment of a glassy little giggle from behind. Turning, she saw Cecilia Pratt eyeing her while whispering into her mother’s ear.
Nell chose an aisle seat on the left side about ten pews from the front, which afforded her a good view from behind of everyone except Detective Skinner, some eighty or ninety rows back. She withdrew her little tortoiseshell fan from her chatelaine and flicked it open, wondering why it had to be so blasted hot on a morning when she was obliged to wear wool crepe head to toe. The choir rose and sang “Nearer, my God, to Thee,” after which Reverend Gannett stood and crossed to the podium.
“Infinite Father,” the minister intoned, “God of light and love, we bless Thy name for this beautiful world Thou hast given us—for the love of our families, the peace of our communities, and, even in our tears, for that angel of death whom Thou dost send to each of us in turn...”
Much as Nell missed the traditional Latin funeral mass, she found it rather refreshing—heretically so, no doubt—to be able to grasp the substance of what was being said. The lengthy prayer was concluded with a paltry chorus of “Amen’s.” One deep male voice, emanating not from the first few pews but from overhead, stood out among the others. Looking up and to the left, Nell saw a handsome black-haired gentleman sitting in the front row of the gallery above her, his forearms resting on the balustrade, his gaze directed not at Reverend Gannett, but at her. Nell’s fan stilled.
Will.
Her breath snagged in her throat. How long
Of all the many dead bodies Nell had encountered in her twenty-six years, Virginia Kimball’s was by far the most remarkable. Her unbound hair, so black it had to be either a wig or the product of dye, lay in sinuous ripples over the white satin pillow that cradled her head. Even in death, she was striking to look at, with her dramatically arched eyebrows, elegant cheekbones and powder-pale complexion. She’d been painted with stage makeup, Nell realized, right down to the kohl blackening her eyelids. The initial effect was of a lady who looked much younger than her forty-eight years—until one noticed the furrowed throat and slack jowls, the lines radiating from her eyes, the creases bracketing her crimsoned lips.
Not only were her cosmetics theatrical; her attire was, too. The dead actress wore a slim gown of silvery white satin with trailing sleeves and an ornate golden girdle, a medieval costume that echoed the fairy tale imagery. Garlands of daisies and wildflowers were strewn over her, and lotus blossoms all around her, giving the impression that she was floating on water.
Nell hitched in a breath when it came to her. She wasn’t Snow White at all. She was Ophelia.
Even death couldn’t keep Virginia Kimball from playing what had evidently been a favored role, that of the young woman whose love for Hamlet had driven her to drown herself in madness and despair. Nell couldn’t imagine an undertaker doing this of his own volition, nor was it likely to have been stodgy old Orville Pratt’s idea. Mrs. Kimball must have made her own arrangements ahead of time.
“Jesus,” Nell whispered, then sketched a hasty sign of the cross, appalled to have blasphemed in a church. Her cheeks stung when she noticed Dr. Gannett watching her from his seat on the altar; Protestants didn’t make the sign of the cross. He offered her a reassuring smile before returning his attention to his notes.
There was no kneeler in front of the coffin, so Nell merely clasped her gloved hands and murmured a prayer for the departed soul of Virginia Kimball. Unwilling, despite her discomfiture, to abandon the customs of her faith, she crossed herself again, to the accompaniment of a glassy little giggle from behind. Turning, she saw Cecilia Pratt eyeing her while whispering into her mother’s ear.
Nell chose an aisle seat on the left side about ten pews from the front, which afforded her a good view from behind of everyone except Detective Skinner, some eighty or ninety rows back. She withdrew her little tortoiseshell fan from her chatelaine and flicked it open, wondering why it had to be so blasted hot on a morning when she was obliged to wear wool crepe head to toe. The choir rose and sang “Nearer, my God, to Thee,” after which Reverend Gannett stood and crossed to the podium.
“Infinite Father,” the minister intoned, “God of light and love, we bless Thy name for this beautiful world Thou hast given us—for the love of our families, the peace of our communities, and, even in our tears, for that angel of death whom Thou dost send to each of us in turn...”
Much as Nell missed the traditional Latin funeral mass, she found it rather refreshing—heretically so, no doubt—to be able to grasp the substance of what was being said. The lengthy prayer was concluded with a paltry chorus of “Amen’s.” One deep male voice, emanating not from the first few pews but from overhead, stood out among the others. Looking up and to the left, Nell saw a handsome black-haired gentleman sitting in the front row of the gallery above her, his forearms resting on the balustrade, his gaze directed not at Reverend Gannett, but at her. Nell’s fan stilled.
Will.
Her breath snagged in her throat. How long
Similar Books
