Lethal Lasagna by Rhonda Gibson Page A

from my legs, wishing I hadn’t worn hose this morning. A full-length mirror hung on the closet door. There I stood in a black sweater with a red skirt.
    “Ready?” Mrs. Haywood’s soft call carried through the wood.
    “Just a sec.” I added my dress to the other two hanging to dry, grabbed my Bible, and then hurried to open the door. “As ready as I’ll ever be. Thank you.”
    “No problem. How about you and I go on into the Sunday school class? The others will be here in a few minutes.”
    I hate going into Sunday school late, so I was happy to follow Mrs. Haywood. We entered a room with a board nailed over the entryway with the word Adult painted upon it. “This is a nice church,” I offered, looking around at the small classroom. Unlike my Sunday school room, this one had plaques with Bible verses and pictures of nice flower arrangements on the walls. Several lace-covered round tables were clustered about the room. A bookshelf holding Bibles and what I assumed were Sunday school books sat beside the door.
    “We try to make it feel like a home instead of a place to visit once a week.” She offered as she took a chair at the table.
    I sat down, too. It really did feel comfortable. I noticed a small table off to one side of the room. A coffee pot with several cups sat on its surface. The aroma of fresh brew began to fill the air.
    “Would you like a cup while we wait?” Mrs. Haywood offered. “It should be ready in a couple of minutes.”
    “Thanks. That would be nice.”
    I watched her get up and separate two Styrofoam cups from a tall stack. She opened a cabinet under the table and pulled out a tray with an assortment of condiments on it.
    “Cream or sugar?”
    The sound of southern gospel music filtered into the room. “No thanks. I prefer mine black.” I felt as if I were visiting the home of Mrs. Haywood instead of a new church.
    She carried my cup over and offered it to me. “If you don’t mind my asking, how did you find our church?”
    I took a tentative sip of the hot brew. “Thank you. My friend, Mitzi Douglas, used to go here.”
    “Oh yes. We miss Mitzi. She was a wonderful woman and a very loving soul.”
    Well, that was one way to describe her, I suppose. I studied Mrs. Haywood over the top of my drink. When Luke and I were planning her funeral, it never entered our minds to use her church and pastor for the services. We’d simply had a graveside service with my pastor residing. Now I felt a twinge of guilt at having neglected her church family. I shook off the feeling and told myself the announcement had been in the newspaper and anyone could have attended.
    “Yes, she was.” I finally answered. The music stopped.
    Mrs. Haywood set down her cup and tilted her head to the side. After a couple of seconds, she smiled at me. “The rest of the class will be here in a moment. Before they arrive I want to welcome you into our church. I hope you will like it here.”
    I couldn’t help but smile back. She seemed so sincere in her invitation. “Thank you, I’m sure I will.”
    Couples began to arrive, some young, some old, some at an age I couldn’t define. I watched each one with the question, Could that person know who killed Mitzi? running through my head.
    Several came over and introduced themselves, and then went and found a seat at one of the round tables. They were all very warm and friendly, but I was glad to see the instructor finally stand at the front of the room to begin the lesson.
    Only she didn’t. She asked the age-old question. “Do we have any visitors today?” Why do they do that? She knew she’d never seen me before, at least I didn’t think she had and yet, she asked the question.
    Mrs. Haywood raised her hand. “I’d like to introduce Claire Parker. She’s a friend of Mitzi’s.”
    The instructor brought a lesson book to me. “We’re glad you could make it, Mrs. Parker.”
    All eyes were upon me.
    “Thank you.”
    She nodded and then returned to the front.