Free A Biscuit, a Casket by Liz Mugavero

let me know what I can
     do. Especially when you start planning”—she dropped her voice an octave—“the services.
     Funding them, even. I’m happy to help.”
    Em bristled visibly. When she spoke, her voice was sharper than the sickle that had
     killed her husband. “That’s lovely of you,” she said in a tone indicating it wasn’t,
     “but I’m sure I can pay for my husband’s funeral.”
    Leigh-Anne, to her credit, flushed. “Emmy, that was not an insult. I know what it’s
     been like for you—for all of us!—and I just want to make sure this is as easy as possible.”
    This was about to get ugly. Time to go. Stan edged nearer to the chair where she’d
     tossed her jacket, but the doorbell rang again. Maybe she could sneak out in the rush
     of new visitors. But she couldn’t get past Leigh-Anne Sutton to get her jacket, so
     she gave up and ducked into the front hall and opened the door. Betty Meany, the Frog
     Ledge librarian, and Lorinda Walters, who worked the research desk, waited. Each held
     a shopping bag full of more food, if the delightful smells coming from the bags were
     any indication. Funny how death brought out people’s appetites. Or maybe they just
     wanted to eat because it was such an alive activity.
    “Hi there,” Stan said. “Come on in.”
    “Well, hello!” Betty exclaimed.
    “Hey, Stan!” Lorinda had dressed for the occasion with leopard print stretch pants
     and black heels—more five-inchers. Had these women all coordinated their shoes, or
     was this the new dress code for condolence visits? Stan felt out of place in her running
     sneakers and yoga pants, although she did look better than Mary Michelli.
    Betty pinched Stan’s cheek and breezed by, sweeping off her cherry red beret as she
     entered the kitchen, full of comforting words for Em.
    “So awful,” Lorinda confided. “I almost don’t know what to say to the poor woman.”
    “I know. Terrible.”
    They stood there for another minute, pondering the situation, then Lorinda sighed.
     “I better go in.”
    “I’m going to have to get going, so I’ll just grab my stuff,” Stan said. She followed
     her into the kitchen.
    “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Em was saying to the mini-crowd gathered. “Leigh-Anne
     and Mary, I appreciate your offers, but you have your own farms to run. Same with
     Asher and Ted. The guys and gals can’t come over here twice a day and do my chores.
     I have to do what’s right. Not like I haven’t been doing it anyway.”
    Francine, who had reentered the room while Stan had been in the hall, snorted. “Damn
     right,” she said. “You did too much, Emmy. We have to figure out a better way.”
    “Now, now,” Leigh-Anne interrupted. “We are here to help, Emmy. You just stop that
     right now.”
    Em ignored both of them. “I know I need help on the farm. Have for a long time. But
     laborers aren’t too hard to find. What I’m really gonna need help with are the dang
     books. Hal was better with a ledger than I was, let’s face it. And I can’t have Tyler
     running over here from college to do it. He needs to do his own homework. I don’t
     even know where Hal left off most of the time.”
    Stan saw an opening and snuck in to retrieve her jacket, finally.
    “It’s just too bad I don’t have someone with that expertise standing right in front
     of me,” Em said, and then she stopped talking and turned to stare at Stan. The other
     women’s gazes followed.
    “What?” Stan said, frozen with one arm in her sleeve.
    Em tapped her lip with her index finger. “Didn’t you work for a money company?”
    “Me?” Stan stared at her. Char turned from the stove now, too, a thoughtful look on
     her face. “I, um, technically, yes . . . I worked in insurance financial services.
     But I did public relations. I didn’t do money.”
    “But,” Char said, “you’re a whiz with investments.”
    Stan felt her face turning red. It was true. Her financial situation