War and Peas

the funeral itself was a sad and brutal reminder of the real loss they’d all suffered.
    Jane and Shelley joined the other volunteers after the service to return to the museum while Regina’s intimate friends and co-workers went to the cemetery. The entry hall had been set up for a supper. Tables had been brought in and laid with paper tablecloths and plastic plates and utensils. Coffee and tea urns steamed; several trays of cold cuts, cheeses, rolls, and relishes were put out, covered with plastic wrap that would be removed when everyone arrived. Someone, probably the ever-efficient Sharlene, had had the foresight to rent several microwave ovens, which were stuffed with casseroles being kept warm.
    Finally the funeral limos arrived. Jane had to smile a little as Jumper came in. He was a tweedy professor today, charcoal leather elbow patches and all. The only thing that was missing was a pipe, and she suspected he had one hidden somewhere on his person. Babs and Sharlene were both in tailored gray-and-white dresses, and Lisa, more traditional, wore deepest black. In deliberate contrast, Caspar Snellen, whose bad taste knew no bounds, had on a plaid jacket and a violently pink shirt. At least he’d stayed away from the funeral itself and turned up only for the food afterward.
    Whitney Abbot looked exhausted and wrung out, and Georgia Snellen seemed to have aged a decade or so during the week. Jane assumed the older couple who walked in with the cemetery crowd were Regina’s aunt and uncle.
    When nearly everyone had a plate, Babs took a place near the front door and the room fell silent. “This probably isn’t the time for speeches,“ she said, “but on behalf of the board of directors and Regina’s friends and family, I want to thank all of you for being so kind and organizing this event. This is a sad day for all of us, but in a sense, Regina’s vision will remain as we move the Snellen into the future.”
    She spoke for a few more minutes. The words consisted of formal platitudes, but Babs’s musical voice made them seem very personal and sincere. After she had finished and sat down, other conversations sprang up, making the entry hall appear to hum.
    The board and staff of the museum were seated at two adjoining tables, and as Jane examined something that looked like breaded peppers, Whitney approached Jumper, at the other end of the table. Whitney pulled up a chair and said, “Cable, I need some advice. Not exactly legal, but—“
    “I’ll be glad to help if I can,“ Jumper said.
    “Well, I got a call from Regina’s personal attorney this morning, asking me to come by his office. She’d left a letter with him a week or two before her death. Sealed. Addressed to me. It was—well, I can’t think of another word for it—an accusation.“
    “Accusation?“ Jumper repeated, looking alarmed.
    “Yes. Very upsetting. She told me something about her life I hadn’t known and expressed her concern that she might be in danger.“
    “From whom?“
    “I’d rather not say right now. I don’t know what to do. Regina might just have been imagining it all, and if I turn it over to the police—I don’t know—they might jump to a conclusion that was only a suspicion on Regina’s part.“
    “Whitney, you’ve got to give it to the police,“ Jumper said firmly. “They’re not dummies. But if Regina really thought she was in danger from someone, she was probably right. If I were you, I’d call them immediately.”
    Whitney ran his hand through his tidy hair, an uncharacteristic movement. “Okay, okay. I guess I knew that’s what you’d say. I know it’s the right thing to do. It’s just that—“
    “It’s the only thing you can do,“ Jumper said. “Do you want me to phone for you?“
    “No. No, I’ll call now.“
    “Use the phone in Regina’s—I mean, Sharlene’s—office. It’s more private. I’ll come with you if you want.“
    “No, thanks. I want to think about it a little more. I could be seriously harming someone. Thanks, Cable.“ With a weirdly formal handshake, he wandered off.
    Jane assumed the pepper she was nibbling was probably good, but her mouth was so dry she could hardly swallow it. Shelley, sitting beside her, was nervously tapping her unused fork on the tablecloth. Time seemed to slow to a glacial pace as they sat there, unheard conversations washing over them.
    “I can’t stand this,“ Shelley whispered. “What if we’re wrong?“
    “We’re not wrong,“