Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_01 by Crewel World

amount?”
    Mr. Huber lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Very well.” He helped Betsy fill out a death certificate and write an obituary. He said he’d take care of sending it to the local papers. He was kind and patient through all of this, but then they were back to the big question of the funeral.
    â€œI want her cremated,” said Betsy, “so we don’t have to do all that chemical stuff, do we? Can you do that right here in your place?”
    â€œNo, we don’t the facilities. There are two choices in the area. There’s Fairview Cemetery in Minneapolis. They can make it part of a service—”
    â€œNo, I want a funeral service in a church.”
    â€œMargot was a member of Trinity Episcopal.”
    Betsy nodded. “Yes. I’m going to call the rector today.”
    â€œYou’ll find Reverend John a pleasure to work with.”
    He led Betsy upstairs to look at the urns. And here she weakened. She picked a very nice Chinese-vase style in a pearl color with cranberry-colored lotus blossoms on it. Three hundred and forty-nine dollars was the price, which she thought outrageous, but what could she do? The polished wooden box wasn’t much less, and it looked like something you keep recipes in.
    They went back downstairs to the little office and Mr. Huber got out his calculator. “Two thousand four hundred dollars,” he announced with a little sigh.
    By now Betsy had a fierce headache. She’d cut every comer she could think of, and it still seemed an enormous sum. She wanted to weep and change her mind about the lotus urn, but she hadn’t the strength.
    â€œDo you take Visa?” she asked.
    They did.

7
    Paul Huber sat at his desk for a while after Betsy Devonshire left. It was not uncommon for survivors dealing with unexpected death to look for someone to be angry at. Often they settled on the funeral director. After all, he was doing unknowable ... things to the body, and charging for it besides, which put him right out of the category of friend.
    While Betsy Devonshire was not the worst example of this phenomenon, she was one of the saddest he had seen in a very long time.
    He wondered if he should have been more persistent in telling her that there really should be a wake of some sort, where all her friends and the many people Margot had touched in her life could get together informally and talk, and pay their last respects.
    And that there was no need to be parsimonious about the funeral service.
    But Ms. Devonshire was in no mood whatsoever to listen to advice from a funeral director, who, so far as she was concerned, was interested only in lining his pockets.
    He shook his head and blew his nose and went to deal with the body of a friend he had long admired.

    â€œOh, my dear, I tried to call you yesterday, but couldn’t get through,” said the pleasant voice on the phone. It was Reverend John Rettger. “I’m so sorry about Margot.”
    â€œThank you, Reverend. I’m calling about the funeral.”
    â€œYes, of course. Do you want to come here, or shall I come over there? As it happens, I’m free right now.”
    â€œI’ll come to you.”
    Betsy was startled to find that what she had thought was the church hall was, in fact, the church.
    â€œWe still use the little church, as a chapel,” said Reverend Rettger. He was short, with a broad face, low-set ears that stuck out, and fluffy white hair around a bald spot. He had the kindest blue eyes Betsy had seen in a long while. “It was the first church built in Excelsior, so we want to preserve it,” he said in his mild voice. “We use it for early-Sunday services and small weddings and funerals. But of course you’ll want to use the big church for Margot.” He started to lead her back to his office.
    Betsy frowned. “I will?”
    â€œOf course. And the church hall after, for coffee. Half the town will come, and