There was a soft rustle across the aisle, and Simon and Rebecca Briard slipped into the pew, eyebrows drawn with contrition.
“Forevermore,” the parson repeated, his train of thought momentarily derailed as he frowned admonishingly at his tardy son and daughter-in-law. “Let us pray.”
Everyone’s heads bowed as Parson Briard launched into his invocation, imploring God to grant mercy on Old Widow Mullins’s soul and accept her into the Heavenly hereafter. To my left, Sadie squirmed uncomfortably, and I pressed her hands together in an attitude of prayer. My eyes darted over to Rebecca before I could stop myself.
I hadn’t seen her in months, not since the morning she and Simon had come over, brimming with accusations. Judging from the curious looks of those surrounding her, no one else had seen her either. Her hands were spread wide over the outrageous curve of her belly, as if trying to somehow press it into a less conspicuous shape. The weight of the prying stares must have been unbearable.
At least Samuel wasn’t here to add to her discomfort. Half a dozen of Judd Abrams’s heifers had gone into labor, and the promised money was apparently too great an allurement for my twin. Merry had marched over to the ranch that morning and begged for him to come to the funeral with us. Old Widow Mullins had always been fond of Samuel, giving him one of her most prized handkerchiefs on his sixteenth birthday—yellow daffodils surrounding his initials. He’d snorted with derision when Merry had suggested he step away from the ranch on this one day to honor her.
After a short sermon, the parson invited anyone wishing to share a memory to come to the front. Several of the older members of the Falls came forward, telling stories that best exemplified the widow’s kindness and surprisingly wicked sense of humor.
“You should go up,” I murmured to Ezra. He sat on the other side of me, shifting back and forth as if his collar was too tight.
“I wouldn’t know what to say.” He took off his spectacles and polished them as Cora Schäfer headed up.
“Papa and you were at her house all the time as boys,” I said, recalling stories my father had told of afternoons spent running the then-not-widow ragged. “You used to play so many pranks on the poor woman, but she always laughed it off. Like the time you brought her that pie.”
Ezra’s lips rose, remembering.
“But it was just a tin of bees, covered in a cloth.” I paused. “Papa said you were stung so many times.”
He nodded. “What clowns we believed we were.”
“Only…” I thought hard, a burr of importance prodding at me. The way Papa had told the story, Ezra had been stung so much on his backside, he could hardly sit the next day. “You’re allergic to bees, though, aren’t you?”
Ezra stilled, and though he kept his smile, a bit of wariness crept into his eyes.
“Well…after being stung that much, people develop allergies. It’s a wonder I made it out alive, really.”
Whitaker’s concern washed over me. He’d insisted something was off with Ezra and Thomas. I’d thought he was only deflecting our conversation, but now I wondered if there wasn’t more to it. Uneasiness pooled uncomfortably in the pit of my stomach.
“Well…if you don’t want to talk about the pranks…why don’t you say something about the quilt she made for you?” I said carefully, thinking of all the embroidery Widow Mullins had done for the Falls. It was a running joke that despite her pristine stitches, she was a terrible quilter, never having the patience to create something so large and time-consuming. “Papa said she worked on it for months, trying to get the poppies just right.”
“I could, I suppose,” he said, but he remained planted in the pew. “It was a lovely quilt. Nice and warm on even the coldest nights.”
I looked back to the front of the sanctuary, my heart galloping in my chest.
It was possible to develop an allergy later on in life, and I probably couldn’t remember every gift ever given to me in childhood.
But why not come out and admit it?
Ezra’s lies didn’t prove anything exactly, but it also didn’t look good.
I decided to try one last thing.
“What about the time when you and her daughter Betsy got caught out by the Greenswold? What was it she said to you?”
“Ellerie, my memories of her are from so long ago. I’d rather listen to those who knew her better.”
“Well…we should at least give Betsy our condolences after the service,” I pressed, waiting for him to guess my game.
“Absolutely.” He nodded and turned his attention back to the front, unaware of my discomfort.
Old Widow Mullins had never had a daughter.
She’d had one son, Winthrop’s father. Christopher. He and Ezra had been especially close before my uncle had disappeared.
It was possible to forget all sorts of things, but remembering a girl instead of your best friend seemed unlikely.
As Cora returned to her seat, Violet Buhrman slipped up the steps. She adjusted the collar of her dark shirtwaist with fidgety hands.
I tapped my foot unconsciously, hoping Violet would say her piece quickly. I couldn’t wrap my mind around everything, with so much noise going on around me. The stories, the sniffles. I needed somewhere quiet to think through why Ezra would lie.
Not Ezra, a tiny voice in my head whispered. He’s not Ezra.
“Widow Mullins was a dear old soul, and she will be greatly missed,” Violet began. “She was always kind to me and Calvin…and I think everyone knows Amity Falls will be a little less without her presence.”
“Of that we can all agree,” Parson Briard said, sensing the crowd’s attention was beginning to flag.
“A true Christian woman,” Violet continued. “Never putting others down, never judging—and she certainly wasn’t too high and mighty to come have dinner or a drink at the tavern. Not like some.”
Several people around me shifted in their seats, sneaking surreptitious glances at Prudence and Edmund Latheton. It was no secret the Lathetons were teetotalers and often butted heads with the tavern keepers.
I snuck a glance at Ezra, examining him with fresh eyes.
Martha McCleary had said he was the spitting image of my father, a Downing through and through, but as I studied his jawline and the curve of his cheekbones, even the shade of his hair, it was all wrong. A close approximation, but not quite right.
Violet’s eyes burned brightly with anger, her fingers digging into the sides of the lectern. “Not like some,” she repeated, “who would dare to take and destroy things that aren’t theirs, who would hurt and maim defenseless animals.”