"Neither were the other guests," Libby recalled. "I got the feeling we were as welcome as a...a..."

"Weevil in a cotton field?" Bernie suggested.

Libby nodded. "Exactly."

"And no doubt for the same reason," Sean said.

"Which is?" Bernie asked.

Sean smiled. "That you're going to cause a lot of trouble and be hard to get rid of."

Chapter 6.

Libby and Bernie both agreed that the funeral itself was extremely brief. The phrase "pro forma" occurred to Bernie frequently. A small hole in the ground had already been dug by the time everyone had arrived. It was covered with a green mat, which reminded Bernie of cheap indoor/ outdoor carpet.

The only thing cheaper than going this route, according to Marvin, was not having a service at all and scattering the ashes, a practice he pointed out that was both illegal and unsanitary. Libby was thinking about that when the funeral director and his a.s.sistant arrived bearing Annabel's ashes in a dull-looking metal container.

"Annabel would have wanted an urn from Tiffany at the very least," Bernie whispered in Libby's ear.

"I don't think Tiffany's makes urns," Libby whispered back.

Bernie indicated the urn with a nod of her head. "Maybe not, but I think someone makes something better than that."

"According to Marvin, that urn is the bottom of the line," Libby replied sotto voce.

Then she fell quiet because the minister began to speak. The service consisted of the Lord's Prayer and a few generic words out of Funeral 101 along the lines of "Annabel was a fine lady who will be missed, and she is no doubt going to a better place." When he was done Joyce stepped forward and recited "Trees," which she claimed was Annabel's favorite poem-a claim Bernie was sure Annabel would have been mortified to hear if she had been there.

Throughout the proceeding Libby watched Richard, who was fidgeting and could hardly hide his impatience with the whole thing. One thing was clear to both Bernie and Libby: he was definitely not prostrate with grief. In fact, Bernie said later that she'd seen people show more emotion over the loss of a favorite pen.

No one else said anything after Joyce was finished except for Trudy, who barked at a pa.s.sing squirrel. The people seemed disinterested and the dogs seemed restless and anxious to leave.

Libby was reflecting that she hoped she had a better sendoff when Melissa's dog squatted and p.o.o.ped on Annabel's grave.

Joanna glared at Melissa. "Have some decency," she cried, pointing to what Melissa's dog had done.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Melissa demanded.

Joanna's white skin looked almost translucent in the thin winter light. "It means that I'd like to think you'd have some respect."

"Respect? What does respect have to do with it? Of course I have respect. My pugkins has been having stomach problems recently."

Joanna snorted.

Melissa pointed to the little pile of p.o.o.p. "Are you saying I made her do this?"

"No, although I wouldn't put it past you. I'm saying you should clean it up."

"I will clean it up. I always clean up my own messes, which is more than I can say for you."

"Meaning?" Joanna demanded.

"Meaning you're one to talk. If anyone around here should be cleaning up their own messes it's you."

"I already have, thank you very much. At least I don't go around shoving things in people's faces."

Melissa took a step toward her. "And you're saying I do?"

"Judge not lest you be judged."

"Oh, puh-leze," Melissa said. "Spare us that nonsense."

Joanna put her hands on her hips. "Now let me get this straight. Are you saying the Bible is nonsense?"

"No. I'm just saying your quoting the scriptures is laughable." By now Melissa was nose to nose with Joanna.

The irises of Joanna's eyes went from brown to black. She stuck out her chest, which, Bernie reflected, looked even larger than it had the day before-if that was possible. Joanna opened her mouth to say something, but before she could, Richard grabbed her by the sleeve and pulled her away. Bernie watched as she and Richard talked. Or maybe talked wasn't the right word. It was like watching a handler calm down a nervous filly.

Joyce coughed and everyone turned to her. "I'm sure Annabel wouldn't have wanted this," she said. "She would have hated to see her nearest and dearest fighting."

"I don't think that's how she thought of us," Ramona pointed out.

She had on sensible shoes, jeans, and a hoodie. She definitely hadn't dressed for the occasion, Bernie thought.

"You know how she got when she was upset," Joyce persisted. "She said things she didn't mean."

"If you say so," Ramona said. Her expression showed that this clearly wasn't the case at all.

Trudy started to whine.

"And you've got Trudy all upset," Joyce continued. "She doesn't like discord, you know. Richard, why don't you pick her up? She's cold."

Richard pretended he hadn't heard.

"I would," Joyce said, "but I'm afraid Conklin will get upset." Conklin didn't look as if anything would upset him-besides not being fed-but that was just Libby's view.

Finally Bernie went over and lifted Trudy up. Despite the cashmere sweater Trudy had on, the pug was shivering from the cold.

"I think it's time we went back to the house," Richard said.

It was a sentiment that Bernie and Libby heartily agreed with.

Chapter 7.

The first thing that Bernie and Libby noticed when they entered the Colbert household was that the Puggables were no longer there. Evidently, they'd been returned to wherever they'd come from in the past two days. Without them the house seemed larger and colder, more like a museum than a place where people actually lived.

Bernie and Libby went into the kitchen to drop off the food they'd brought, while the other guests trooped off to the sunroom, dogs in tow, except for Trudy, who tagged along with Bernie and Libby.

Bernie noted yet again that Richard seemed to have no regard for the animal, which struck her as odd considering the position that Trudy occupied. Or maybe it was because of the position she occupied, Bernie thought. Maybe he didn't like anyone or anything being the center of attention except himself.

"I wonder what's going to happen to her?" Libby asked, nodding to the little dog trotting at their feet as they entered the kitchen.

A girl with long, prematurely gray hair was standing by the sink scrubbing a pot. "Have you read Poor Little Rich Girl?" the girl asked them.

"No," Libby replied. "Why?"

"Because that's the fate that's awaiting Trudy."

"She's not Gloria Vanderbilt," Bernie pointed out as she bent down and scratched Trudy under her chin.

"Barbara Hutton," the girl said.

"Whoever," Bernie replied.

The girl tossed her head. "It doesn't matter. The principle is the same. My point is that no one here likes her. Except me. And I don't live here." She turned to the dog. "Isn't that right, pok.u.ms?" she crooned.

Trudy wagged her little tail as hard as she could.

"Do you work here?" Libby asked, because she certainly didn't look like your typical domestic.

"Would I be doing this if I didn't?" the girl asked. "Mr. Colbert hired me to help serve the mourners when they returned from the funeral." She eyed the package Libby was holding. "So you've brought the funeral meats," she observed. "That's good, because there isn't a friggin' thing in this house to eat. Lots of booze but no food."

"Actually, it's roast chicken," Libby replied.

The girl briefly considered Libby's statement. Then she said, "I guess roast chicken could fall under the funeral meat description in a broad, generic kind of way. They're both protein."

Bernie fed a piece of bread that was on the counter to Trudy.

"You know," the girl said to her, "Joyce and Melissa are gonna kill you if they see you feeding that dog anything but her special diet."

Bernie looked down at Trudy, who had dragged the slice of bread under the table and was proceeding to devour it.

"She seems okay to me. Anyway, if it's all right for her to eat a piece of birthday cake, surely it's okay for her to eat a piece of bread."

The girl's eyes widened. "I thought you guys were the caterers. You were here when the missus died."

"Yes, we were," Bernie said, wondering at the word missus, which seemed to come from some old movie.

"Wow."

"You could say that," Bernie replied. "Although I'd use the words scary and stressful myself."

The girl gave the pot she was working on one last vigorous scrub before taking the sprayer and washing the soap off. "I read in the paper they're saying it was an accident."

"You don't think it was?" Bernie asked.

"I didn't say that."

"It sure sounded that way," Libby observed.

"Hey," the girl cried. "I just help out here from time to time."

"Okay. But that doesn't mean you can't have an opinion," Bernie noted.

The girl hitched her jeans up. "Well, I don't."

"What did you tell the police?" Libby asked.

The girl took a towel and began drying the pot. "I didn't tell the police anything. They didn't ask me."

"Really?" Bernie said.

"Yes, really," the girl said. She wiped her hands on the towel and carefully replaced it on the rack next to the sink. "And even if they had there's nothing I could have contributed. I wasn't here then. As you know."

"I do know," Bernie agreed. "I just thought they might have wanted to talk to you anyway to get background material, impressions of people, stuff like that."

"Well, they didn't," the girl said decisively.

"And if they had, what would you have said?" Bernie asked, out of curiosity.

The girl curled her lip. "I couldn't have said anything. I already told you that. Besides I signed a letter of confidentially, which means I can't talk about what happens in this house."

Somehow Bernie didn't think that counted when it came to police investigations, but she let that pa.s.s. "But if you could?" she persisted.

The girl frowned. "That's not going to happen. Richard...Mr. Colbert won't allow it."

Interesting sentence on two levels, Bernie thought. First there was the "Richard, Mr. Colbert" thing, and then there was the implication that Richard was running the investigation. Maybe running wasn't the right word. Maybe influencing was. Which squared with what Clyde had said previously.

"I didn't say it was going to happen," Bernie continued. "I'm just asking, if you could talk what would you say? Hypothetically speaking."

"I wouldn't say anything," the girl repeated. "I signed this paper. Mr. Richard says bad things will happen to me if I do."

"He doesn't have to know," Bernie told her.