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.”