I’ve been to meals after funerals that were very comforting, feeding not only the body but the emptiness that lies in all of us after a death. Old friends eat, visit, and share stories, reminding each other that the dead live on within us. The lunch at Jason Marley’s was not one of those comforting events. One reason was that many of the people didn’t know each other; the other was the shadow of violence. Neighbors from Gulf Towers and, I assumed, some of the staff of Blue Bay Ranch crowded around the bar, ignoring the lovely lunch that some caterer had provided. Not me. I took the opportunity to help myself to a couple of small turkey sandwiches, some crab claws, boiled shrimp, and veggie sticks.

“Keeping up your middle-aged strength, I see,” Fred said, passing by with a beer in his hand and snitching one of my crab claws.

I ignored him and found a seat that had a view of the bay. The rain had become mist again, and I saw Eddie Stamps walk down the pier and enter his boathouse. Then a black-clad figure appeared on the Stampses’ pier. Sophie, I realized. She walked to the boathouse but didn’t go in. Instead, she leaned against the pier and looked over the water. Several seagulls, expecting to be fed, circled and landed near her, but she paid them no attention, just stared into the distance. I had been that age when our Granny Alice died, and I could still remember how my sorrow had been mixed with fear. Death was real. People left and didn’t come back. Ever. I was considering going to see about her when I saw her father step onto the pier. She turned and ran toward him and his outstretched arms, ran by him and disappeared from my view. What in the world was that about, I wondered?

“Where’s Frances, Patricia Anne?” It was Jason Marley asking the question.

I explained that she hadn’t gone to the funeral because she really didn’t know Millicent or Fairchild and said she would feel out of place.

“She shouldn’t feel that way. Call her and tell her to come on over.”

To the Hansel and Gretel house? I wondered how many seconds it would take her to get there.

I took my empty plate into the kitchen where a skinny woman with greenish-blond hair was rinsing out glasses. When she looked up, I recognized Lolita of the Blue Bay sales staff.

“I’m Patricia Anne Hollowell,” I said. “My sister and I met you the other day.”

She smiled. “I know. The pot-of-gold lady.”

“Sorry about that. Is there a phone in here?”

She pointed down the counter with the dishcloth she was holding.

“Come on over,” I told Frances when she answered. “We’re at Jason’s and he’s asking for you.”

“You’re lying.”

“Cross my heart.”

“Give me five minutes.”