The lovely mahogany casket sat on a blue satin–draped bier at the front of the large room in Sullivan Murphy’s new funeral home. This time the place didn’t have the whorehouse look his mother had favored. Everything was sleek and new and understated, except for that bright blue drape which had to be Dolly’s choosing.

The photo of Chet I’d seen before was nicely framed and sat atop the closed casket. There weren’t many flowers. I’d forgotten all about sending them and would have to do something nice for Dolly later. Guilt settled in: for the lack of flowers, no card, and for picking on her yesterday morning when she stuck her nose in my business. At least the bear had been gone when I looked out that morning. No guilt there. Maybe, I thought, fortune was beginning to smile on me.

Everyone from Leetsville was present; the room filled to overflowing. Eugenia waved from the center of her waitresses and her two cooks. Flora Coy and Anna Scovil sat with other townswomen. In another row, Chief Barnard watched the crowd. Beside him sat Frances, and Charlie, his little boy, who, with his pink cheeks and sparkling eyes, seemed to be feeling a lot better than he had been over the last year. Gertie was there with a passel of customers, hair done up in impossible beehives. The group from The Skunk stood out for their scraggly beards and hungover red eyes. The churches were well represented, though the funeral would be from no church. I supposed people were there to support Dolly. Let her see how much she was loved in town—despite her annoying tickets.

I stood at the back of the earth-toned room with airy bisque drapes, beige carpeting, and beige wallpaper. Muted hymns came from speakers set high at corners of the room.

Detective Brent stood at the back, hands clasped over his groin—the way men stand when they are uncomfortable. He wasn’t in uniform, which seemed a blessing, but wore a blue suit, white shirt, and striped tie. When he saw me, his unibrow lowered a notch as he nodded, then looked back to the front, and Dolly.

She was a surprise. The one thing we had not discussed was wardrobe. I’d imagined she would be in a pantsuit. Maybe dark blue, with a dark blue blouse underneath. Dolly in a black dress with white dickey wasn’t what I expected. And she had legs. In nylons. And almost high heels. Her hair was pushed back behind her ears and held suspiciously still in a flip. I thought I recognized one of Gertie’s sprayed-stiff coifs. Bangs had been cut across her forehead and she had on lipstick, blush, and just a touch of eyeliner and mascara.

The effect was startling. I’d always thought that Dolly, as dear as she was—sometimes—would look like a guy in drag if she wore “lady” clothes, and makeup. Instead she was pretty. Without the guns, she was almost soft. And gracious—nodding to everyone as she solicitously found places for people to sit.

I was proud that I’d taken care dressing. My gray and white print dress, which I’d had for years, was new to everyone up here. I’d found a gray purse in my closet and gray heels to match the purse. I thought I looked rather chic and felt that at least in this I wasn’t letting Dolly down.

She smiled at me when I got through the crowd to the front and stood back, admiring her. The limit to our preening was a smile and a couple of admiring head shakes. I gave her a hug for strength.

“Chet’s family get here yet?” I asked, after Dolly greeted the guys from the fire department.

She looked worriedly up at the clock on the back wall. “Quarter to eleven. They’ve got fifteen minutes or they’re going to miss the service. Sullivan’s not going to wait, and Eugenia’s got the food ready to go. We’re on a schedule here.”

I stood beside her, greeting people as they arrived. A few leaned close and pointedly whispered they were looking forward to hearing me read from my new book. Anna Scovil cornered me on my way to a seat and murmured how the whole town was so very excited about library night and how she hoped I wouldn’t forget the cookies.

At precisely eleven, Sullivan walked in and ushered Dolly to a seat. She sat, but turned nervously every few seconds to watch the door.

Sullivan raised his hands and began with a prayer—a kind of nondenominational thing that talked only about the great beyond where Chester Wakowski had gone. He talked about Dolly, said nice things about Chet, then asked anyone who would like to come forward and say a few words to do so at that time.

Dolly was the first one out of her seat. She evidently didn’t get the protocols of a funeral. She went up to the front, got behind the narrow podium, and clutched the sides with her hands.

As she cleared her throat, preparing to give her little talk about the goodness of Chester Wakowski, two women walked in. The younger one was Elaine, Chet’s sister, dressed neatly in a soft pink dress. The older woman was extremely thin, almost emaciated. Her back was bent and she held firmly to Elaine’s arm. Her wrinkled face had light powder dabbed on in places. Her cheeks were bright circles of blush. This had to be Chet’s mother from Bloomington, Indiana.

Dolly left the podium and hurried up the main aisle. She introduced herself, and led the women to seats at the front. When the women were settled, Dolly went back to the podium and gave her little speech about what a wonderful man Chet had been and how much she’d missed him all these years. After that she invited his sister and mother to come up and say a few words. Both women declined, shaking their head vehemently. Two men from The Skunk took the microphone and rambled awhile. One brought up the toilet paper incident. He was thankfully interrupted by Tom Flaherty, town raconteur, who never missed an opportunity to tell jokes in front of an audience. He pushed Jason Real aside and regaled us with an Irish joke; then a priest, rabbi, and parson joke; and finally one long story about a ticket Dolly gave him, which he didn’t deserve. That seemed to unlock other tongues. A line of men formed at the microphone. The first one started by saying he wasn’t one to complain, but …

Sullivan finally took back the mike and was in the middle of inviting everyone to the luncheon at EATS when the back doors opened again.

An old woman with long braids entered and moved quietly to one side of the room, standing with her arms folded serenely at her waist. Another woman followed. After her, there came two Native American men with sun-darkened skin and deep-set eyes. They silently joined the women. Ten people in all walked in and stood as if at attention. At first there was a collective gasp from the gathered mourners. I looked toward Dolly. Her face was frozen.

These had to be Mary Naquma’s people, come to pay their respects to Chet Wakowski. I looked from one to the other, and understood what they were doing. At the same time, I didn’t want them to get away. If they knew what had happened out at Sandy Lake, this was our opportunity to talk to them. If they knew where Alfred Naquma was, or Lewis George, or Christine Naquma … I looked to Detective Brent who stood back in a corner. I bit at my lip, willing him to understand how badly I wanted to ask about the men, and my dog.

Brent nodded and was on his way toward the door, probably to intercept the people as they left, when the door opened a last time and both Lewis George and Alfred Naquma stepped into the big room.