A Bone to Pick Page 0,2

But I had often thought of marrying him, and I had occasionally thought about babies; most women my age, if they do want to get married, do think about babies. Somehow, just for a little while, it seemed to me that I had been robbed of something.

I spoke to enough people on the way out of the church to be sure my attendance registered and would be reported to the happy couple, and then I skipped the reception. There was no point in putting myself through that. I thought it was pretty stupid of me to have come at all; not gallant, not brave, just dumb.

The funeral came third, a few days after my mother's wedding, and, as funerals go, it was pretty decent. Though it was in early June, the day Jane Engle was buried was not insufferably hot, and it was not raining. The little Episcopal church held a reasonable number of people - I won't say mourners, because Jane's passing was more a time to be marked than a tragic occasion. Jane had been old, and, as it turned out, very ill, though she had told no one. The people in the pews had gone to church with Jane, or remembered her from her years working in the high school library, but she had no family besides one aging cousin, Parnell Engle, who was himself too ill that day to come. Aubrey Scott, the Episcopal priest, whom I hadn't seen since my mother's wedding, was eloquent about Jane's inoffensive life and her charm and intelligence; Jane bad certainly had her tart side, too, but the Reverend Mr. Scott tactfully included that under "colorful." It was not an adjective I would have chosen for silver-haired Jane, never married - like me, I reminded myself miserably, and wondered if this many people would come to my funeral. My eyes wandered over the faces in the pews, all more or less familiar. Besides me, there was one other attendee from Real Murders, the disbanded club in which Jane and I had become friends - LeMaster Cane, a black businessman. He was sitting at the back in a pew by himself. I made a point of standing by LeMaster at the graveside, so he wouldn't look so lonely. When I murmured that it was good to see him, he replied, "Jane was the only white person who ever looked at me like she couldn't tell what color I am." Which effectively shut me up.

I realized that I hadn't known Jane as well as I thought I had. For the first time, I really felt I would miss her.

I thought of her little, neat house, crammed with her mother's furniture and Jane's own books. I remembered Jane had liked cats, and I wondered if anyone had taken over the care of her gold tabby, Madeleine. (The cat had been named for the nineteenth-century Scottish poisoner Madeleine Smith, a favorite murderer of Jane's. Maybe Jane had been more "colorful" than I'd realized. Not many little old ladies I knew had favorite murderers. Maybe I was "colorful," too.) As I walked slowly to my car, leaving Jane Engle forever in Shady Rest Cemetery - I thought - I heard someone calling my name behind me. "Miss Teagarden!" panted the man who was hurrying to catch up. I waited, wondering what on earth he could want. His round, red face topped by thinning light brown hair was familiar, but I couldn't recall his name. "Bubba Sewell," he introduced himself, giving my hand a quick shake. He had the thickest southern accent I'd heard in a long time. "I was Miss Engle's lawyer. You are Aurora Teagarden, right?"

"Yes, excuse me," I said. "I was just so surprised." I remembered now that I'd seen Bubba Sewell at the hospital during Jane's last illness. "Well, it's fortunate you came today," Bubba Sewell said. He'd caught his breath, and I saw him now as he undoubtedly wanted to present himself; an expensively suited, sophisticated but down-home man in the know. A college-educated good ole boy. His small brown eyes watched me sharply and curiously. "Miss Engle had a clause in her will that is significant to you," he said significantly.

"Oh?" I could feel my heels sinking into the soft turf and wondered if I'd have to step out of my shoes and pull them up by hand. It was warm enough for my face to feel damp; of course, my glasses began to slide down my nose. I poked