One thing was for sure. Bernie didn’t want to be laid out in some funeral parlor—a phrase that harkened back to the days when the dead were laid out in their houses, not carted off to funeral homes. And why did this funeral home have to feature beige as its dominant color? Talk about drab. Bernie shook her head. No siree Bob, as her dad liked to say. Now if she were doing this place she’d do it in shades of light green, green being the color of renewal.
Bernie moved her silver and onyx ring up and down her finger while she surveyed the room. Okay, so Libby was correct—not that she’d ever tell her that. They should have gotten here earlier. In a situation like this being conspicuous was not necessarily a plus. After thirty seconds or so Bernie spotted two seats. Unfortunately they were smack dab in the middle of the third row. Better to stand in the back she reasoned, never mind that the shoes she had on weren’t made for standing, but then four-inch heels rarely were. She was just going to make that suggestion to Libby when an usher appeared and started herding them toward the third row. By now the minister was in full oration mode.
Bernie caught the words “kindly” and “charitable” and “loved the outdoors” and “dog lover.” This was not the mother of Mrs. Vongel that she’d heard about, she reflected as she began making her way down the row. The mother she’d heard about had allergies to every living thing and spent most of her time behind her triple sealed windows watching the Shopping Channel and buying exercise equipment she never used. But that was the thing with eulogies.
Most of what was said wasn’t true anyway. At least not in her experience. Look at what the priest had said about Ann Higgenbottom and her scones. The pride of the parish he’d called them, when actually they’d been responsible for more cases of dyspepsia then anything else served at the potlucks.
“Excuse me. Excuse me,” Bernie whispered as a chorus of “ouchs” and “reallys” followed her down the row.
Finally she arrived to her seat.
“I told you this would happen,” Libby hissed as she plopped herself down next to her.
Bernie noted she was red in the face. Bernie wondered if it was from anger or embarrassment. Probably both.
“Yes, you did. Several times in fact,” Bernie retorted. She was about to add something to the effect that Libby’s habit of repeating things didn’t help anything when she caught a glimpse of the puckered lips from the lady sitting next to her and decided that in this case silence was golden.
Instead Bernie settled into her chair, which kept shifting from side to side whenever she crossed and uncrossed her legs, and attempted to focus on what the minister was saying, but despite her best intentions she found her attention drifting.
She started thinking about the new oven they’d installed at A Little Taste of Heaven. Had she had known what a big deal it was going to be she never would have purchased it. According to the sales rep, the oven was supposed to do everything from bake bread to darn socks in half the time. And as a bonus it was supposed to save on energy costs. Maybe it would too—if they could ever get it up and running.
First they’d had problems securing it, then they’d had problems with the gas line, and now they were having problems with the baking times, but that was the least of it because there was one thing the sales rep hadn’t mentioned—even though she should have known it. The oven put out more BTU’s, considerably more BTU’s, than their old oven. Which meant they needed a new exhaust system, including a recirculating fan. Just the thought make her wince.
This was going to involve major construction. Wait until she told Libby. Libby didn’t know yet. She’d been at the market when the housing inspector had stopped by. Bernie flicked her hair back. She was going to tell Libby—once she found the right time—which seemed to be never.
All this aggravation for only six thousand dollars too. What a deal. And the exhaust system was probably going to cost another four thousand, one thousand to have it installed and three thousand for the duct work by the time the construction company was done, never mined the mess and disruption the workmen were going to cause.
Libby was ready to kill her as it was and she didn’t blame her sister one bit. Fortunately, they still had one of the old ovens left, one of the old reliable ovens as Libby was fond of saying, but that wasn’t enough with Valentine’s Day coming up and all the cakes and cookies they were contracted to make, not to mention the fund-raiser they were doing at Just Chocolate.
They’d have to subcontract some of their baking. That was all there was to that. Libby would object, but what else could they do? Unless of course they could get the new oven up and running. Libby was right. They should have stuck with what they had. Sometimes new is not a good thing. Bernie sighed as she thought of the havoc she’d unintentionally wrought.
She’d just have to speak to the serviceman’s supervisor and see if she could get him to speed things up. She hated to do it, but they were running out of options. She was composing her conversation when she felt a poke in her ribs.
Libby cupped her hand and whispered into her ear.
“I don’t recognize anyone here,” she told her.
It occurred to Bernie that she didn’t either, which was strange with Longely being a fairly small place.
“I don’t either,” Bernie allowed.
Libby tugged at her sleeve. “Do you suppose we’re in the wrong place?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bernie shot back.
How could they be in the wrong place?
That wasn’t possible.
Libby tugged at her sleeve again. “I hate to tell you this but Mrs. Vongel’s mother’s name was Janet.”
“So?” Bernie answered. She was till wondering how to tell Libby what the code enforcement officer had told her.
“Will you two be quiet,” the lady next to her snapped. “Bad enough that you had to be late. At least have the decency to be quiet. Have some respect for the dead for heaven’s sake.”
“Sorry,” Bernie murmured.
The woman snorted and turned her attention back to the minister. Well they certainly weren’t making friends and influencing people today, Bernie thought as she felt another tug on her arm.
She turned and put a finger on her lips. “Not now,” she told Libby as the man in front of them turned around and sniffed.
“But Bernie,” Libby persisted.
“What?”
“The minister is talking about Janet Voiton. Voiton. Not Vongel. We’re in the wrong funeral.”
A Catered Christmas Page 28