And she ushered us out.
We barely had our seat belts on when Bridgy said exactly what I had been thinking. “Is it me, or is all this moving along too fast? Delia’s dead body was found yesterday morning, and by tomorrow she’s gone for good.”
I shook my head. “Not gone. Remember your catechism. We all reunite in heaven.”
“I know. Why else would people want to bring pet toys with them? They’re planning to play with the pet again in the afterlife. But what about pictures? What good is a picture?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps if it’s a picture that you’ve always used to help you remember the long-ago past, you want to make sure the memory doesn’t fade in eternity.”
“So, what would you take? In case I need to know someday.”
Out of the corner of my eye I caught her impish grin. Turnabout is fair play.
“I’d take a copy of Aunt Ophie’s buttermilk pie recipe. In case the angels want a sweet treat now and again.”
Bridgy lightly punched my arm. “Hey, she’s my aunt.”
“I’m declaring that henceforth the recipe is the property of the Read ’Em and Eat. So there. Whoever goes first gets the buttermilk pie.”
We were haggling playfully over custody of the recipe when I realized we had a more important question to consider. Why was Skully, who was undoubtedly the least sociable person I’d ever met, interested in attending Delia’s viewing?
When I asked Bridgy what she thought, she deemed it a coincidence of geography.
“Delia and Augusta have lived on these islands their entire lives, and from what we heard Ryan say to Rowena, so has Skully. Probably their paths crossed a thousand times and he thought to pay his respects since she happened to die while he was here. If he was down on Big Pine Key or up on St. George Island, he wouldn’t know she died and wouldn’t be asking about the viewing and the service. Timing and location, that’s all.”
Somehow I wasn’t so sure.
* * *
The next morning I was shifting hangers from side to side in my closet looking for an appropriate outfit for Delia’s funeral service. I was mindful that Ophie would require us to pass well-mannered ladies inspection, so I avoided sleeveless tops, short skirts and pants of any length.
Shoved off to the left I found a black cotton man-tailored shirt with three-quarter sleeves. It had been on a hanger for so long that the front would need a quick touch with the iron, but I thought it would look classy if I wore a slim gold chain around my neck. I took out a gray knee-length A-line skirt but put it back, deciding that the color combo would look too much like I was Fern’s clone. Two hangers past the gray skirt I found a long-forgotten olive pencil skirt. I moved to the window and held the skirt next to the blouse in the morning light. Perfect.
I stumbled to the kitchen in search of coffee and found the table set with a pitcher of orange juice and a bowl of mixed berries for starters. Ophie was at the stove scrambling eggs with one hand and turning slices of bacon with the other.
“Good morning, honey chile. No matter you think your appetite is fit or poorly, you have to eat hearty to get through this most distressing day.”
And she set a plate piled high with bacon and eggs in front of me, backing it up with a smaller plate of whole wheat toast.
It was a rare morning that Bridgy awoke later than I did, but I took one look at her stretching in the kitchen doorway and knew she hadn’t been out of bed long.
Ophie placed a cup of coffee on the table and held off her cheerful “Good morning” until Bridgy sat down and took a sip or two.