We all watched in amazement as she half dragged a sobbing woman down the aisle with her. Minka’s face alternated between apprehension at the crowd’s disapproval and disgust with her sniveling companion. But I detected a gleam of triumph in her beady eyes.
I didn’t recognize the woman with her. She was taller than Minka but wispy, as though a soft breeze would knock her off her feet. She was blond and her face was pale and thin. Her gray raincoat was buttoned up tight and she wore a pink pashmina over her head and around her neck as though she’d been grabbed on her way to church. She looked fragile and frankly terrified, like a lamb being led to slaughter.
Minka, on the other hand, looked like a derelict Goth in frayed, tight black leather pants and matching way-too-tight vest over a purple mock-turtleneck sweater. And too much makeup, as usual. Wait. Were those pants pleather? Oh, dear God.
Minka marched right up to me and snarled, “Am-scray.”
I held my hand over the microphone and whispered, “Are you nuts? Get out of here. I’m not finished.”
Heck, I hadn’t even started.
She elbowed me out of the way and leaned into the microphone. “Everybody sit down and shut up. I have an announcement to make.”
“Wait a minute,” I said.
Minka snapped her fingers. “Serena. Stand over here.” She pointed to the other side of the podium.
Before the wispy woman could move, I grabbed Minka’s arm and pulled her away from the podium.
“You can wait until I’m through talking,” I said.
“Fuck off, Brookie.” She wrenched her arm away, then tried to push me again, but before she could do it, I caught her hand, twisted it and shoved it away from me.
“Ow! You bitch!” she shrieked. “That hurts.”
“Yeah?” I gave her hand another rough twist. “Well, don’t call me Brookie.”
She yanked her hand away and darted back to the microphone.
I got hold of her slimy pleather vest and hauled her farther away from the podium as three hundred people-some of them potential clients, damn it-attempted to watch every move and hear every word.
“Let go of me!” she wailed. “I have a right to talk!”
“After me,” I said through clenched teeth as I clutched her arm tightly. I hadn’t even wanted to talk before, but now I was determined not to let Minka push me off the stage. Kyle had been my friend, damn it. Minka didn’t have the right to talk about him.
“We take our turns,” I said. “It’s how civilized society operates.”
“Oh, screw you and your civil society.” She struggled to get away. “When I’m finished talking, nobody’ll care what you have to say.”
I still had a tight grip on her arm, so she swung her other arm around and smacked the side of my head.
“Damn it,” I said. “I’m sick of you hitting me.” I snatched hold of her oily ponytail and pulled until she was bent backward and bellowing like a farm animal. I continued to pull her down until we were both on our knees. She had both arms free to punch and slap me as I jerked and twisted her head every which way.
Without warning, two strong arms pulled me back; at the same time someone else pulled Minka away from me.
“No!” I protested. “Let me kill her, please.”
“Easy there, champ,” Derek said as he effortlessly hauled me out of harm’s way.
“Son of a bitch,” I grumbled. “I almost had her.”
“Yes, you did,” Derek uttered close to my ear as he scooted me farther away. “We’re all really proud of you.”
“Thanks.”
I noticed with some satisfaction that Detective Inspector Angus MacLeod was the one struggling to hold on to Minka. She wasn’t going meekly.
The wispy blonde, Serena, stood a few feet away, wide-eyed and trembling.
“Who the hell is she?” I wondered aloud.
“I’m afraid we’ll find out soon enough,” Derek said as he urged me back toward our seats. I stopped in the middle of the aisle and watched Minka grapple for the microphone despite the detective’s grip on her. I should’ve warned him about the pleather. That stuff made her slippery as a seal.
“Listen to me,” Minka yelled, causing feedback to scream back at her. She pointed at the pale blond woman she’d dragged in with her. “This is Serena McVee! She’s Kyle’s wife. Or I should say, his widow.”
“What?” I said, and turned to find Helen in the crowd.
“No.” Helen gasped, and jumped to her feet. “No, she’s-” She stopped, couldn’t seem to catch her breath and began to sway. I stood watching as her eyes rolled back in her head and she dropped like a stone.
“You know how I feel about women fainting,” Derek said as he paced the floor in front of the settee where Helen lay passed out.
Despite his ambivalence, minutes ago he’d swept Helen into his arms, yelled at Angus to call a doctor, and carried her out of the memorial service into the smaller sitting room down the hall. I’d shut the door and now the two of us stood by as she remained passed out on the couch.