The balding nephew stepped over to the choir and moved behind a waiting microphone stand. The organist played the introduction and then replayed it. Not a peep from the nephew. At the third try, as if it was the one he’d been waiting for, Edgar belted out, “Some glad morning . . .” and signaled the choir to join in for the chorus.
Augusta was right. He had a strong, beautiful voice, a “Danny Boy” kind of tenor. By the time he reached the second stanza, we were all clapping or waving our arms. At song’s end, the church was filled with people who would always remember Miss Delia’s service as a warm and joyful event.
Pastor John shook hands with Edgar and then announced that Miss Augusta Maddox had arranged for a buffet in the parish hall immediately following the graveside ceremony at the Riverview Memorial Park in Cape Coral.
“For those not escorting Miss Delia to the cemetery”—here he gave a slight frown, indicating disapproval of those thoughtless folks—“my wife, Jocelyn, and the gracious ladies of the Food Pantry Committee will serve lemonade and cookies until it is time for the buffet. Now, let us pray . . .”
As I bowed my head in prayer, I took a quick look to the back of the church. Skully was still in the last pew, his hands prayerfully folded. Now that the service was nearly over, I was anxious to get to the parking lot so I could talk to him before we left for the cemetery. I glanced over my other shoulder, and Frank Anthony was still in his seat, looking every bit as attentive as one of Pastor John’s acolytes. I decided it would be best if he didn’t see me talking to Skully.
The choir sang “Shall We Gather at the River?” and Miss Delia Batson, who’d spent her entire life among the rivers, creeks and bays fronting the Gulf of Mexico, left her favorite church for the final time.
Once the recessional passed by I realized the folly of sitting on the center aisle. Pews were emptying in order, front to back, and it would be a while before we could leave. I turned toward the other end of the pew, hoping we could use the side aisle, but the row was full and my pew-mates were facing me, waiting to go out the center.
I was trapped. I looked at the spot where Skully was sitting, but his seat was empty. I scanned the throng moving slowly through the vestibule and thought I caught a glimpse of him. Perhaps he wasn’t that far ahead.
Finally it was our turn. I moved into the aisle, but there was no way to push through the mourners without being extremely rude. I noticed that Frank Anthony was no longer in his seat. I wondered how he’d managed to beat the crowd. Flashed a badge? Probably not.
I pushed through the wide front doors and stood on the top of the church steps. I had an excellent view of the parking lot, but Skully was nowhere to be seen. Then I realized he didn’t have a car. I hurried toward the curb, hoping to catch him walking away.
Chapter Eighteen ||||||||||||||||||||
I took a quick look in all directions. No sign of Skully. I rubbed the back of my neck to relieve the knot of dejection that was rapidly tightening and walked back to the parking lot. Cars were already lining up behind the hearse for the trip to the cemetery. I thought Bridgy would be standing beside the Escort tapping her toe and pointing to the time on her imaginary wristwatch, but she and Ophie were talking to Rowena, Judge Harcroft and an animated man wearing a dark suit and tie. He was very touchy-feely, first patting Ophie’s arm and then putting a chummy hand on the judge’s shoulder. His outfit made me think he was one of the ushers, but his attitude shouted “used-car dealer.”
I circled the group until I was in Bridgy’s line of vision, then I waved to get her attention. But when she and Ophie started to walk toward me, the stranger grabbed Bridgy’s wrist and thrust a business card into her hand. He tried to give one to Ophie as well, but she shook her head and kept walking.
“Who’s your new friend?”
Bridgy handed me the business card and unlocked the car. “Looks like they’re ready to go.”