well-lit aisle. There, she stopped. Hands on hips, she stuck out her chest and shook her mane of bottle-bought red. From within a face powdered matte white, red lips grinned.
“What are you all staring at?” she said. “Can’t a girl attend her own husband’s funeral without getting the stink-eye?”
Chapter 10
“O UT!” S HOTSIE’S SCREAMS filled the church. “Get her out of here!”
Helen gripped the back of the pew, stunned by the turn of events. The hiss of lowered voices rippled through the rows, though no one dared to move.
“Make her go,” Shotsie pleaded, and when her cry went unheeded, she rose from her seat and strode up the aisle alone. She brushed past Helen, who noted her flushed cheeks and hands clenched into fists.
“Well, don’t you look the part of the grieving widow,” Delilah drawled, at which point Shotsie reached out and grabbed a hank of red hair.
“Ow! Hey, cut it out!” Milton’s first wife shrieked, the grip on her head forcing her to bend. “Hey, somebody, help!”
“Mrs. Grone, please,” the minister called in his unruffled tone. He came out of the pulpit, robes billowing behind him, approached Shotsie and took hold of her shoulders. “Please,” he tried again, “stop at once.”
With a sigh, Shotsie let go.
Her victim groaned as she came upright and raised red-tipped fingers to pat at her hair. “I’d hate to think this is how all your visitors get treated, Rev,” Delilah remarked, coaxing her ruined ’do back in place.
Fister waved a hand helplessly. “I’m truly sorry, Miss . . .”
“Mrs. Grone,” the woman replied, and glared at Shotsie. “But you can call me Delilah.”
“Grone?” The preacher blinked, glancing from one Mrs. Grone to the other. “But I thought . . .”
“She’s the old model,” Shotsie said with a smirk. “Now make her leave, would you? She wasn’t supposed to come in the first place.”
Helen had never seen Earnest Fister so flustered, but he was exactly that now. He rubbed at his beard before telling Delilah, “Normally, I’d welcome you into this house of the Lord, but in this case I feel that I must abide by the current Mrs. Grone’s wishes.”
Delilah’s powdered face crumpled. “Can’t I even stand here in the back? It’s not like I’m sorry about the old buzzard, but I wouldn’t mind sitting in on his send-off. Just to make sure he doesn’t rise out of his coffin and flip us the bird.”
Fister turned to Shotsie. “Mrs. Grone?”
She shook her head.
The minister faced Delilah again. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave.”
With a frown, Delilah tugged at her tight sweater and tapped a high-heeled boot. “All right, all right, I’m gone already,” she said. And with a final glance at the closed casket, she slipped through the vestibule’s double doors, exiting far more quietly than she’d come.
“Mrs. Grone, are you okay?” Reverend Fister drew Shotsie back to the front pew. When she nodded, he returned to the pulpit. He raised his hands to quiet the murmuring congregation. “As I was saying,” he began, picking up where he’d left off, “death is but a completion of the human cycle, a rebirth of the soul.” He paused, his gaze traveling over his audience. “It’s with this thought in our hearts that we say good-bye to Milton Grone.”
Shotsie burst into tears, sobbing so noisily that Fister was forced to cease his oration yet again.
Helen slipped out of her pew and slid into the seat beside Shotsie. Reaching into her purse, she withdrew a neatly folded handkerchief, as Shotsie had managed to dump a mess of tissues from her handbag to the floor. Helen blotted at the trail of tears dripping down the woman’s cheeks before pressing the damp kerchief into Shotsie’s nail-bitten fingers.
Shotsie seemed calmed by the attention, and her loud sobs turned into hiccups. She quieted enough anyway that Fister was able to continue.
He cleared his throat and shuffled his notes.
“What are you all staring at?” she said. “Can’t a girl attend her own husband’s funeral without getting the stink-eye?”
Chapter 10
“O UT!” S HOTSIE’S SCREAMS filled the church. “Get her out of here!”
Helen gripped the back of the pew, stunned by the turn of events. The hiss of lowered voices rippled through the rows, though no one dared to move.
“Make her go,” Shotsie pleaded, and when her cry went unheeded, she rose from her seat and strode up the aisle alone. She brushed past Helen, who noted her flushed cheeks and hands clenched into fists.
“Well, don’t you look the part of the grieving widow,” Delilah drawled, at which point Shotsie reached out and grabbed a hank of red hair.
“Ow! Hey, cut it out!” Milton’s first wife shrieked, the grip on her head forcing her to bend. “Hey, somebody, help!”
“Mrs. Grone, please,” the minister called in his unruffled tone. He came out of the pulpit, robes billowing behind him, approached Shotsie and took hold of her shoulders. “Please,” he tried again, “stop at once.”
With a sigh, Shotsie let go.
Her victim groaned as she came upright and raised red-tipped fingers to pat at her hair. “I’d hate to think this is how all your visitors get treated, Rev,” Delilah remarked, coaxing her ruined ’do back in place.
Fister waved a hand helplessly. “I’m truly sorry, Miss . . .”
“Mrs. Grone,” the woman replied, and glared at Shotsie. “But you can call me Delilah.”
“Grone?” The preacher blinked, glancing from one Mrs. Grone to the other. “But I thought . . .”
“She’s the old model,” Shotsie said with a smirk. “Now make her leave, would you? She wasn’t supposed to come in the first place.”
Helen had never seen Earnest Fister so flustered, but he was exactly that now. He rubbed at his beard before telling Delilah, “Normally, I’d welcome you into this house of the Lord, but in this case I feel that I must abide by the current Mrs. Grone’s wishes.”
Delilah’s powdered face crumpled. “Can’t I even stand here in the back? It’s not like I’m sorry about the old buzzard, but I wouldn’t mind sitting in on his send-off. Just to make sure he doesn’t rise out of his coffin and flip us the bird.”
Fister turned to Shotsie. “Mrs. Grone?”
She shook her head.
The minister faced Delilah again. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave.”
With a frown, Delilah tugged at her tight sweater and tapped a high-heeled boot. “All right, all right, I’m gone already,” she said. And with a final glance at the closed casket, she slipped through the vestibule’s double doors, exiting far more quietly than she’d come.
“Mrs. Grone, are you okay?” Reverend Fister drew Shotsie back to the front pew. When she nodded, he returned to the pulpit. He raised his hands to quiet the murmuring congregation. “As I was saying,” he began, picking up where he’d left off, “death is but a completion of the human cycle, a rebirth of the soul.” He paused, his gaze traveling over his audience. “It’s with this thought in our hearts that we say good-bye to Milton Grone.”
Shotsie burst into tears, sobbing so noisily that Fister was forced to cease his oration yet again.
Helen slipped out of her pew and slid into the seat beside Shotsie. Reaching into her purse, she withdrew a neatly folded handkerchief, as Shotsie had managed to dump a mess of tissues from her handbag to the floor. Helen blotted at the trail of tears dripping down the woman’s cheeks before pressing the damp kerchief into Shotsie’s nail-bitten fingers.
Shotsie seemed calmed by the attention, and her loud sobs turned into hiccups. She quieted enough anyway that Fister was able to continue.
He cleared his throat and shuffled his notes.
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