Final Act by Dianne Yetman (best free ebook reader .TXT) 📕

to the centre of the room.  Her posture was loose, swaying each time a person bent to offer condolences.  The blackness of her dress and shoes contrasted dramatically with the whiteness of her face.  Not a hair on her head was out of place, it stood as stiff and lacquered as a bowl of meringue.  Her eyes were liquid, swimming with the effects of the drugs; her body swaying back and forth in the armchair.

Alexis, like Hanya, surveying the room, drew closer to Susan.

“The room’s crowed”, Alexis said, “but given how well known he was, I’m surprised at the numbers.  I thought the funeral and reception would be much larger.”

“This is a private affair, close friends and family.  The public memorial is scheduled for sometime in November and believe me, it’ll be a spectacle. Those who love to be seen will be there, together will all the celebrity freaks, of course”, Susan said.

“I hope Catherine will be in better shape by then.”

“It’s very strange behaviour for Catherine.  She’s going to have one drug hangover once she returns to the land of the living.  I’ve never known her to take as much as an aspirin, but a murdered husband, who’s to judge. Oh look, there’s Eleanor standing off to the side looking as murderous as Lizzie, minus the axe.  We should join her before she explodes.”

Eleanor, eyes fixed on Catherine, didn’t notice the two women approach.  What the hell is wrong with Catherine, drugged out of her head? Disgusting, and in front of her children too. Surely she can’t be grieving over the bastard.  God, how many of my silk blouses served as hankies for the tears she shed over that man.  Wail to me then run back to him. What a fool I was to waste my time in tea and sympathy these past years.  I’d thought the woman had more backbone.  She pulled her gaze away from the comatose Catherine when she saw Alexis and Catherine heading straight for her.  Just what she needed, the energizer bunny and her flashlight.

June Grayson, hair, like a true stylist, all over the place, had managed to break free from Charlotte and helped herself to another glass of white wine.  She shot a glance at Withers but it was impossible to catch his eye.  She was puzzled, didn’t think she had misread the sign of interest.  She put it down to the wishful thinking of the heart of a divorced woman where hope springs eternal.

June knew as much about Withers as any of his colleagues.  She knew he was a bachelor, lived alone somewhere in the burbs, had a passion for motorcycles, loved to race them on the dark highways late at night thanks to the information provided by one of her faithful customers, Constable Shirley Proctor.

“Are you alright Withers?” Kate asked.  “You’re flushed and your breathing isn’t great.  Are you coming down with the flu?”

“No, it’s the tea; doesn’t agree with me.”

“I’ll get you a drink of water.”

“No.  I’ll be fine.”

Roger listened to their conversation and bit his lip.  What’s with Kate these days?  Figured she’d twig to what’s wrong with Withers before anyone else, this woman needs to get out more. He munched on his tiny sandwich, the kind his aunt would make when the Baptist minister came to call.  So tiny, they slid down his throat without hitting his taste buds.  He took three, downed them at once and decided it was time to help alleviate Wither’s misery.  Poor bastard, he’s tormented just being in the same room as June Grayson.  This kind of situation needs the work of a pro matchmaker like my Aunt Gertrude.  She could persuade a fox to mate with a rabbit.  He turned to Kate.

“Withers and I could be working on those background checks Shirley needs help with.  If we left now, we can get in a couple of hours before the evening shift comes on.  You mind finishing up here on your own?”

“Go ahead; I’m going to be taking off shortly myself.  Withers, pay attention to that reaction, your throat starts to swell, get to the hospital.”

A relieved Withers and a smug Roger made their exit.

Kate decided to mingle. She walked over to Eleanor who was standing next to a dark haired young woman who was introduced herself as Brenda Parsons.  So this is the bubbly Brenda, Withers spoke about.  Kate murmured something about how sad it must be for Jeffrey’s family.

“Yes, very sad”, Brenda said.  “You only have to look at Catherine to see how much pain she is in.”

“Did you know them well”, Kate asked.

“We met socially from time to time.  Jeffrey invited my husband, Jim and me, to dinner just the other week.  He and Catherine were perfect hosts.  They were a lovely couple.”

“I understand you’re a writer.”

“Yes.  I have written a couple of one act plays.  One of my biggest fans was Jeffrey; we talked collaborating on a script some day.” A look of sadness crossed her broad, freckled face, but no tears. “But that was not to be.”

“I’m sure we will be reading your books someday, Brenda”, Eleanor said.

“Are you planning on staying with the theatre group”, Kate asked.

“I want to but it depends on whoever is in charge of the next production.”

Eleanor and Brenda started tossing around names. Kate excused herself and drifted over to join Hanya and the dour looking man dressed in black.

Henry made his way to the men’s room and splashed cold water on his face.     His body ached from the lack of sleep and dark circles ringed his eyes.  He had spent most of the evening sipping scotch and struggling with the short address he had delivered. The drinks he had weren’t helping.  Red blotches covered his neck and face.  He couldn’t stand to see her suffer like this.  The bastard didn’t deserve it.  He’d make it up to her once a decent interval had passed. He dried his face with a paper towel and went