Dearly Departed Read Online Free PDF

come in here a minute?”
    They stood side by side as the emotionless Archer entered, stopping by the bedroom door. “Yeah?”
    Peter held up the envelope and casually asked her about it. Amy saw no reaction on the woman’s face, except perhaps a tinge of boredom. No, she had never seen it before. No, Miss MacGregor had never given her any envelope. No, no one had come to visit except the ambulance people. Would that be all?
    Yes, that would be all.

CHAPTER 4
    A fter several tries, Amy had decided on her old black Fendi with the scoop neck and the long-sleeved jacket. She didn’t like wearing new things to funerals. It made the clothes somehow sad and hard to wear again. But this wasn’t really a funeral, was it? More of a business obligation.
    Marcus sat patiently behind the wheel as Amy swung her legs over to the sidewalk and eased on the three-inch heels. He was borrowing the Abel family Volvo. It was for some errand or a job search. Amy hadn’t paid much attention, since the odds of him telling the exact truth were about fifty-fifty. She just needed a drop-off first.
    â€œI’ll take the subway home,” she said and straightened her eyeglasses, also black Fendis, also old.
    â€œIf you feel nervous about this trip, you shouldn’t go.”
    â€œNo. Peter’s right. It’s a silly envelope. And she died naturally.”
    â€œAmy, your instincts are good. If you think there’s a possibility of danger . . .” Marcus and Fanny had been trying for days to talk her out of this, both for the same reason. It wasn’t because of the potential danger, but because they both liked Marcus and disliked Peter. “You shouldn’t do it for the money.”
    â€œOf course I’m doing it for the money.” She buckled the last strap. “We have to keep the doors open. And it’s good to get away. We both need a break.” Marcus didn’t have a response for this, and she mentally kicked herself for wanting one. “How do I look?” she asked.
    â€œToo good for a funeral,” he said. As soon as she was out and the door closed, he put the Volvo in gear and started heading north on Madison Avenue. Amy watched him disappear, then turned and looked up at the imposing gray-brown box.
    The Frank E. Campbell Funeral Chapel was an East Side institution. Everyone who was anyone, from Rudolph Valentino to Jackie O to the Notorious B.I.G., had put in a final appearance here. Campbell’s was understated, expensive, and clearly stipulated in Paisley MacGregor’s rather detailed instructions. Peter was waiting for Amy under the chandelier in the cream-colored lobby, and together they took the stairs. Their employer was waiting for them in one of the reposing rooms on the third floor.
    The service that morning would be informal, bordering on the nonreligious. One of MacGregor’s bosses had recalled that she had been raised Church of Scotland, but the best that Amy could do on short notice was a Presbyterian minister from a tiny congregation in the Theatre District. His presence would serve to give some structure to the proceedings.
    Amy was glad she had gone to the trouble of blowing up the photos and placing them around. It gave the illusion of a few more people having shown up. She was also glad about the catering. The table of wines and hors d’oeuvres provided a much-needed centerpiece, drawing focus away from the open casket and the shriveled head propped up on a powder blue pillow. Is this what MacGregor imagined? thought Amy as she examined the peaceful, artificial-looking features, the maid finally being the center of attention, the benefactress of an unforgettable trip.
    There were perhaps two dozen mourners, and none of them seemed to be curiosity seekers. Peter, always mindful of publicity, had given the story to the New York Times , which had done a charming article, half a page, complete with photos, about the maid sending her former