Free Mourning Glory by Warren Adler Page A

services and charities."
    "I'm sure," the grieving husband had retorted.
    "And you can avoid the trauma of going through her
things. I can tell you, it hurts. I had that experience with my own dear Sidney. It was awful. All those memories. It's too painful a process. I can spare you
that. Why not let us take care of everything? We'll make sure that they go to
her favorite charities. We owe her that. Can we do that for you? Take the
burden and pain away?"
    The grieving man looked at his hands and shook his head in
despair.
    "I'd appreciate that very much. Yes, it would be very
painful. That is so kind of you, relieving me of that. She had such wonderful
taste. Yes, please. That's a wonderful idea."
    The conversation made an impression on Grace. She hadn't
thought about that aspect of death, the disposal of the deceased's intimate
possessions, particularly clothes. She had often wondered where on earth those
compulsive shoppers at Saks had stored their mountains of clothes. In these big
homes, she supposed there were acres of closets holding long lines of designer
clothes.
    Of course, she did allow herself a twinge of cynicism. This
woman did, indeed, look like one of the funeral party. Everything about her
seemed appropriate to the occasion, including the way in which she approached
the grieving spouse. Did she really give the deceased's clothes to charity, or
would she sell them to secondhand clothes stores, which were in abundance in
southern Florida? A brilliant scam, Grace concluded. It certainly showed flair
and imagination.
    Once or twice she had come home tipsy from the wine or
champagne, causing Jackie to remark that she hoped that Grace was not hanging
out in bars and heading toward alcoholism.
    "Why can't you get yourself a nice guy, Mom, then you
wouldn't have to resort to drink?"
    "I'm trying, darling. Really I am."
    "Not very hard," her daughter would harrumph.
"And you're always dressed so ... so gloomy. You really look lousy in
black, Mom."
    "I want to look conservative, Jackie."
    "That I can understand. But you don't have to look
like you're going to a funeral."
    It was getting discouraging. Time was running out. Not that
she felt ghoulish about going to funerals. The events seemed so commonplace,
banal. There was the body in the coffin, the first row occupied with visibly
distraught mourners, the others filling the sequential rows in order of their
emotional stake in the proceedings.
    Then there were the various eulogies, all of them sounding
alike. Why did people wait until death to say such nice things about each
other? She wondered if people would say nice things about her when she died.
Except for the priest, she doubted it. There would probably be less than a
handful of mourners present. Maybe Jackie would attend on Darryl's motorcycle.
Her father, she supposed, would be long gone, and Jason, by then, would have
forgotten who she was.
    Of course, if her consciousness were still alive to observe
it, she was sure she, or it, would feel humiliated by the low turnout. She
began to contemplate cremation. Quick and clean. No fuss, no muss, no bother.
She'd have her ashes flushed down the toilet of Saks Fifth Avenue's employee
rest room.
    It occurred to her that attending these funerals was
encouraging a macabre sense of humor, or was it masking a growing feeling of
personal depression and frustration? So far the only thing she seemed to have
gained was a modicum of insight into the finite nature of time and the inevitability
of death.
    Unfortunately, it hadn't put her one step closer to finding
her quarry.
    Until the Goodwin funeral.
    By then, not wishing to waste her time on marginal
opportunities, she had taken more care with her research and had, as best she
could in a short time, checked out Sam Goodwin's situation. She had learned
that he was a successful businessman, meaning rich, that he was sixty-four
years old and that his wife had died of cancer.
    He had a large house on the north side of Palm Beach,