Crewel World

by Monica Ferris

  She could find no more cash, so apparently that was all that was needed. The dresser held perfumes in one drawer, cosmetics in another, and hair curlers, bobby pins, and an electric curling iron in the middle.

  Betsy found Margot’s plain black purse in the closet and opened it. Inside the wallet were forty-six dollars and ninety-six cents.

  That was more than Betsy’s wallet, but hardly enough to pay for a funeral.

  Now wait, now wait, surely these Huber people were used to this. Unexpected deaths happened all the time; not everyone had access to the cash to pay for a funeral. Doubtless the people at Huber’s would know what to do.

  Which is exactly the attitude funeral directors enjoy encountering, thought Betsy in a sudden flash: customers coming in all confused and scared. That’s how some of those really expensive funerals happen. You go in and hold out all your assets and hope they won’t hurt you too badly. But they do, they do.

  So it was with her chin firmly set and both hands on the closed top of her purse that Betsy walked up past the post office in the cool morning sunshine, rounded the corner, and crossed Second Street to Huber’s, a whited sepulchre with bloodred geraniums in a planter by the entrance.

  The lights were dim inside, the carpet soft underfoot. A dark young man with a thick mustache and a Mona Lisa smile stood waiting. Betsy had a vague feeling she’d seen him before.

  “Mr. Huber?” said Betsy.

  “Ms. Devonshire,” said Mr. Huber. “Come with me.”

  He led her to a small office with dark wood paneling, soft lighting, and samples of ground-level grave markers in the comer. He seated her and went behind the desk.

  “I am very saddened by Margot’s death,” he said.

  “You knew her personally?”

  “Yes, of course,” he replied, by his voice a little puzzled at her tone. “We’re both members of Lafayette Country Club, and we worked together on a Habitat for Humanity house in Minneapolis this summer.”

  That hadn’t occurred to Betsy, though it should have. Margot had said that in Excelsior everyone knew everyone else. But Betsy hadn’t known her sister was a member of a country club. Of course, that probably didn’t mean out here in the wilderness what it did in, say, Rancho Santa Fe.

  Still, better tell the bad news up front. “I haven’t much money,” she said. “What I do have is tied up in an IRA, and of course I don’t have any way to access what assets Margot had, so this is going to have to be a ... an inexpensive funeral. I hope you understand.”

  Mr. Huber was frowning now, though more in puzzlement than anger. “You haven’t spoken with Margot’s attorney yet?”

  “I haven’t talked to anyone, much less Margot’s attorney, whose name I don’t know. I’m practically a stranger here in town. But there’s no time now for that. I know this has to be taken care of promptly, so I want to tell you right now that it can’t cost a whole lot.”

  “What do you consider ‘a whole lot’?”

  “Why don’t you tell me what the very least is I can spend, and we’ll see if I can meet even that amount?”

  Mr. Huber lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Very well.” He helped Betsy fill out a death certificate and write an obituary. He said he’d take care of sending it to the local papers. He was kind and patient through all of this, but then they were back to the big question of the funeral.

  “I want her cremated,” said Betsy, “so we don’t have to do all that chemical stuff, do we? Can you do that right here in your place?”

  “No, we don’t the facilities. There are two choices in the area. There’s Fairview Cemetery in Minneapolis. They can make it part of a service—”

  “No, I want a funeral service in a church.”

  “Margot was a member of Trinity Episcopal.”

  Betsy nodded. “Yes. I’m going to call the rector today.”

  “You’ll find Reverend John a pleasure to work with.”

  He led Betsy upstairs to look at the urns. And here she weakened. She picked a very nice Chinese-vase style in a pearl color with cranberry-colored lotus blossoms on it. Three hundred and forty-nine dollars was the price, which she thought outrageous, but what could she do? The polished wooden box wasn’t much less, and it looked like something you keep recipes in.

  They went back downstairs to the little office and Mr. Huber got out his calculator. “Two thousand four hundred dollars,” he announced with a little sigh.

  By now Betsy had a fierce headache. She’d cut every comer she could think of, and it still seemed an enormous sum. She wanted to weep and change her mind about the lotus urn, but she hadn’t the strength.

  “Do you take Visa?” she asked.

  They did.

  7

  Paul Huber sat at his desk for a while after Betsy Devonshire left. It was not uncommon for survivors dealing with unexpected death to look for someone to be angry at. Often they settled on the funeral director. After all, he was doing unknowable ... things to the body, and charging for it besides, which put him right out of the category of friend.

  While Betsy Devonshire was not the worst example of this phenomenon, she was one of the saddest he had seen in a very long time.

  He wondered if he should have been more persistent in telling her that there really should be a wake of some sort, where all her friends and the many people Margot had touched in her life could get together informally and talk, and pay their last respects.

  And that there was no need to be parsimonious about the funeral service.

  But Ms. Devonshire was in no mood whatsoever to listen to advice from a funeral director, who, so far as she was concerned, was interested only in lining his pockets.

  He shook his head and blew his nose and went to deal with the body of a friend he had long admired.

  “Oh, my dear, I tried to call you yesterday, but couldn’t get through,” said the pleasant voice on the phone. It was Reverend John Rettger. “I’m so sorry about Margot.”

  “Thank you, Reverend. I’m calling about the funeral.”

  “Yes, of course. Do you want to come here, or shall I come over there? As it happens, I’m free right now.”

  “I’ll come to you.”

  Betsy was startled to find that what she had thought was the church hall was, in fact, the church.

  “We still use the little church, as a chapel,” said Reverend Rettger. He was short, with a broad face, low-set ears that stuck out, and fluffy white hair around a bald spot. He had the kindest blue eyes Betsy had seen in a long while. “It was the first church built in Excelsior, so we want to preserve it,” he said in his mild voice. “We use it for early-Sunday services and small weddings and funerals. But of course you’ll want to use the big church for Margot.” He started to lead her back to his office.

  Betsy frowned. “I will?”

  “Of course. And the church hall after, for coffee. Half the town will come, and people from all over the area.”

  “They will?”

  The blue eyes twinkled. “You haven’t been keeping up with your sister’s activities for a while, have you?” He opened the door to an outer office. “Hold my calls, Tracy.”

  “Yes, Reverend.”

  He gestured Betsy through the door to his office. “She was a driving force in this town,” he continued, following her in and closing the door. “She worked to improve the Common, to run the art fair, to aid the schools, to build this new church and repair the chapel, to get better fireworks for our Fourth of July celebration, to raise money for various fund drives.”

  Betsy allowed him to seat her in a very comfortable leather chair, one of a pair. His office, while not large, was light and airy. She said, “I went with her to a committee meeting to hold a fund-raiser for a child in need of heart surgery. I didn’t realize she did a lot of this sort of thing.”

  “She wouldn’t have thought it a lot, she was always pushing herself to do more. Yet she was very patient with the rest of us, who couldn’t keep up.”

 
“Sounds like her eulogy should be given by you.”

  Rettger gave a little bow from his seat facing her—he hadn’t gone behind his desk. “I’d be honored. I have known her a long while, and her husband even longer. Have you spoken with a funeral director?”

  “Yes, Mr. Huber. He’s taking Margot to be cremated right now. When can you find time in your schedule for the funeral?”

  Rettger’s white eyebrows lifted. “No visitation?”

  “I can’t afford it. I want a no-frills funeral service here, and then burial in the same plot as her husband.”

  Rettger appeared to be about to say something, then visibly repressed whatever it had been and said, “Let me show you the two burial services of the Episcopal church. You have some decisions to make.”

  It was not unlike selecting a wedding service. There was a framework of ceremony, with options in the hymns and readings. Rettger said, “I want to assure you that there are people in this congregation who are going to insist on having a part in the service. They would be insulted at the notion that you might offer to pay for their efforts.” His mild voice and kind eyes took the sting out of his words.

  “All right, that’s fine,” replied Betsy. “Now, I know ‘Amazing Grace’ is a cliché, but we both loved that hymn.” A huge lump suddenly formed in her chest and sought to climb up her throat. But she swallowed it and went on.

  Rettger took notes as Betsy made her choices, but had a suggestion of his own for the Old Testament reading, not one of the options. Betsy agreed to it—why not? His intentions seemed at least benign, and surely he knew what he was doing. The funeral was set for Sunday afternoon. “We’ll have to form a committee to let people know,” he said. “It will be my great honor to take care of that for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Even forewarned by Reverend Rettger, Betsy was astonished at the turnout. She recognized the mayor and decided the people with him must be others from the city government. Shelly was there, with a contingent of women who might be fellow stitchers, or perhaps some of the part-time crew. The crazy lady—what was her name? Potter, Irene Potter—sat behind Betsy, dressed in a shapeless navy-blue dress, dabbing a handkerchief edged in black crochet lace to her eyes and sighing audibly.

  There were children and adults and elderly, people dressed beautifully and people dressed very casually, and even some dressed rather shabbily.

  Betsy had a black dress, but it was for cocktails, not funerals. So she wore an old purple suit that was too hot.

  The music stopped and Reverend Rettger came out. To her astonishment, he was wearing white vestments. Then she noticed he had covered the beautiful funeral urn with a white cloth heavily embroidered in gold. What does he think this is? thought Betsy angrily. We’re here to bury Margot, not confirm her.

  A small, good choir did a lovely arrangement of “Amazing Grace,” which was not spoiled by everyone joining in. Except Betsy, whose breathing had gone all strange, so that she couldn’t sing. I’m going to cry at last, she thought. But she didn’t.

  The first reading, from Proverbs, was done by Mayor Jamison. It was the one suggested by Rettger.

  A wife of noble character who can find?

  She is worth far more than rubies.

  Her husband has full confidence in her....

  She selects wool and flax

  and works with eager hands....

  Some in the congregation began reacting with sounds suspiciously like snickers.

  She gets up while it is still dark;

  she provides food for her family

  and portions for her servant girls. ...

  She sees that her trading is profitable,

  and her lamp does not go out at night.

  In her hand she holds the distaff

  and grasps the spindle with her fingers.

  Now Betsy was sure she heard a giggle.

  She opens her arms to the poor

  and extends her hands to the needy.

  When it snows, she has no fear for her household;

  for all of them are clothed in scarlet.

  She makes coverings for her bed;

  she is clothed in fine linen and purple.

  Her husband is respected at the city gate,

  Where he takes his seat among the elders of the land.

  She makes linen garments and sells them.

  And supplies the merchants with sashes—

  That last line sent everyone over the border and there was audible laughter. The mayor himself was grinning. Betsy felt her cheeks flame. How dare they! And how dare Rettger persuade her to allow this reading! She wanted to crawl under the pew—no, she wanted to stand up on it and shout at them to shut up, shut up! But she sat in shamed silence as the reading went on and on.

  She is clothed with strength and dignity;

  she can laugh at the days to come.

  She speaks with wisdom,

  and faithful instruction is on her tongue.

  Betsy heard a sound and looked over. She saw Jill and Shelly and some other women. Tears were streaming down their smiling faces. Those tears gave her the courage to sit through the rest of the service.

  The urn was carried out in Mayor Jamison’s arms like a stiffly wrapped baby, the priest leading the way, the choir singing, “All we go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.” No, no, no, thought Betsy, her heart a stone in her breast, not alleluia, how can they sing alleluia!

  After the ugly work at the cemetery, Betsy sat on a metal folding chair and looked at the raw earth covering the gorgeous urn she’d paid so much money for, that contained all that was left of her beloved sister. Everyone else had gone now, gone to eat and drink and be glad it wasn’t they who were reduced to ashes and buried deep underground.

  She couldn’t stay here, not in a town that turned a funeral into a joke followed by a party.

  But what was she going to do? Where was she going to go?

  She sat so long that her joints stiffened. It was hard to rise from the chair, and her knees were so stiff she nearly fell making her way to the narrow dirt lane that wound around the hill and down to the street, down which she stumbled, back to the empty apartment, there to fall across her bed and descend immediately into sleep.

  Hudson Earlie stood beside the coffee urn, cup and saucer in hand, watching the crowd. Big turnout, which was to be expected, of course. And it had gotten cheerful, as these things tended to do. He hadn’t seen the grieving sister, though. Not a bad-looking woman, if you liked them with a little meat on their bones, which he did when no one was looking. She had some intelligence and sophistication to her, too, which he also liked occasionally.

  But she was too old, only five or six years younger than he was. He had a strict rule that the women in his string not be older than thirty-five.

  Which was too bad in this case, as this one might be the sole heir of her sister’s estate, which he knew was considerable.

  “Hud, whatever are you thinking about?” said a voice beside him.

  “Me? Thinking? You know me better than that,” he jested quickly, grinning at Shelly Donohue.

  “Seriously,” she said.

  “I was thinking how the museum would miss Margot. She was on the board, you know, and she brought some good, businesslike attitudes with her to meetings. And I liked her myself—” He had to stop and swallow. That surprised him, and he took a sip of his coffee to clear his throat. “She was a hardworking, capable woman,” he concluded.

  Shelly nodded. “Yes, she was a terrific friend as well as a good boss. I loved working in her shop. That reading at the funeral had me bawling like a little kid, the one about wool and flax and dressing her servants in scarlet when winter comes. That’s from Proverbs, did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I thought Proverbs was all one-liners of advice, like fortune cookies. But that was a long one. And it described Margot so well! Even about the sashes—did you get that?” />
  “Yes, it came up at Christopher Inn the other night.”

  They’d held a Founders’ Day parade last year, and Margot had helped with costumes. One thing she had done was make sashes for the people who were playing founder George Bertram, and the Reverend Charles Gilpin, and schoolmistress Jane Wolcott, so people would know who they were.

  “I don’t think her sister is going to be the one to replace her,” said Shelly.

  “It would take four people to do what she was doing,” said Hud.

  “Too bad, what happened to her.” This was a new voice, and they turned to see Irene Potter in her dark dress and alert face, a cookie stuffed with M&Ms in her slim fingers.

  “Terrible,” said Shelly.

  “What do you suppose he hit her with?” asked Irene.

  “Irene!” scolded Shelly.

  “Does it matter?” asked Hud.

  “Whatever it was, he took it away with him. I was just talking to the detective in the case. He’s here, you know. Says it’s true murderers always come to the funeral of their victims.”

  Hud opened his mouth, but Irene talked right over anything he might have said. “I was wondering if maybe Margot didn’t bring it down with her, to scare him off with, and he grabbed it away and hit her with it.”

  “Stop it, Irene!” Shelly turned and walked away and Hud quickly made an excuse to leave her as well. When Irene got into one of her “speculating” moods, there was no talking to her about anything else. You just had to let her get over it.

  Reverend Rettger watched this exchange as he sipped the coffee. He was unhappy that Ms. Devonshire had insisted on being left at the cemetery. The manner in which she refused almost made him think she was angry with him, which he knew was impossible. He had thought that when she saw how the congregation reacted to the Proverbs reading, she would understand that everyone present stood eager to give her comfort and aid of any sort. But she seemed to be in a mood to resist any help. He’d seen grief in many forms, but the sort that resisted comfort was the saddest kind.