Scratch the Surface

postfuneral gathering, nor was such an event announced in the little memorial program Felicity had been handed when she had entered the church. As if deliberately to exacerbate her disgruntlement, Sonya and Janice had both inquired about Felicity’s plans to go back to the house after the service. In informing them that she knew of no such gathering, Felicity had felt herself slip in their esteem, as if she had presented herself as more central to Coates’s life and death than was actually the case, and had now been found out and deservingly shamed.
    Leaning toward Felicity, Janice whispered, “There must be something afterwards. If the family isn’t doing anything, the college must be. His department, maybe? Someone?”
    “ No,” Felicity murmured. “No one is. You sound as if you expect me to.”
    “Certainly not,” Janice whispered. “You’ve done more than enough already.”
    “What do you mean ‘more than enough’?” Felicity eyed Janice with annoyance. In selecting the medium blue suit she wore, Felicity had taken care to avoid the black-from-head-to-toe apparel suitable for close relatives. Janice, a stranger, was in deep mourning. A wisp of black lace was pinned unflatteringly on top of her head, and she had on a black dress and black high-heeled shoes.
    “Finding him. Taking his cat.”
    “Cats. Plural.”
    Sonya put a finger to her lips. Who was she to enforce the rules of propriety? In Felicity’s view, Sonya’s loose layers of pale blue cotton and, worse, her espadrilles were as inappropriate as Janice’s formal black. In British cozy mysteries, church women were always arranging flowers and polishing brasses, activities for which Sonya was suitably costumed. If Felicity had known no one in the church, she’d still have been embarrassed to be seen with Janice and Sonya, but, just as mystery novels had led her to hope, Detective Dave Valentine was in attendance. At Janice and Sonya’s insistence, the three women were in the last row, so Felicity had a good view of Valentine, who was only three rows ahead, in a pew toward the right. Despite the distraction of her companions, she’d seen him enter, and she’d also studied everyone else in church, which was perhaps a third full. No one bore even the slightest resemblance to the weird woman in the police sketch. Felicity had, however, been able to identify William Coates—poor Billy Goats!— who had entered from the front of the church just before the mass had begun. The late Dora Coates had perhaps had very thin eyebrows or had carried the genes for them: A dilution of his father’s genetic influence had left William with normal eyebrows and, indeed, with an altogether ordinary appearance. The priest had gone on and on about the depth of Quinlan Coates’s grief for Dora. Maybe her husband had missed being married to someone with corrective eyebrow DNA. In any case, William was of medium height and had brown hair. The only distinctive thing about him was that he sat all alone at his father’s funeral. The newspaper hadn’t mentioned a wife, but didn’t he have relatives or friends?
    Felicity’s observations were interrupted by the rising of the congregation. Unfamiliar with Roman Catholic practices, she was contenting herself with standing when others stood and sitting when they sat. Sonya was doing the same. Janice, however, had genuflected when the three women had entered the sanctuary, and, despite her propensity for whispering during the mass, kept kneeling and crossing herself with the other worshipers.
    Leaning across Felicity, Sonya violated her own ban on talking to whisper, “Janice, I didn’t know you were Catholic.”
    “I’m not. I just want to fit in.”
    Unable to contain herself, Felicity muttered, “When in Rome...”
    Sonya smiled silently and dug Felicity in the ribs, but Janice made a sour face and focused her attention on the priest. For the remainder of the mass, the women said nothing aloud, but Felicity took the opportunity to address the Almighty.
    “Dear God,” she prayed, “Quinlan Coates’s worth as human being falls in Your purview and not mine, but in case You’ve forgotten, as would be understandable at Your advanced age, he was wonderful to his cats, Edith and Brigitte, who, if they could, would implore You to show the same love and generosity to his immortal soul that he lavished on them. Sincerely yours, Felicity Pride.” As an afterthought, she added, “Amen.”
    By the time she had