Murder in Style Read Online Free PDF

into view. No obvious signs of grief.
    Ellie told herself she could understand why Gerald Cordover had been worried on seeing his daughter marry this man, who was loose of lip and roving of eye. Then she told herself that she ought not to jump to conclusions. Ray must have some good qualities, even if they were not immediately apparent.
    The coffin arrived. Plain. Cheap?
    And some latecomers. A middle-aged man with a lined, monkey face, wearing a black leather jacket of all things! Trixie and her father both turned round to see who the newcomers might be. The man in the leather jacket lifted his hand to Trixie and she winked,
actually winked
back! He slid into a pew directly behind her, and for an instant laid his hand on her shoulder … an attention which she did not seem to resent.
    Leather Jacket would be someone who might help Trixie in her ambition to become a film star? An agent, possibly? Slightly seedy? Not out of the top drawer.
    The other latecomer was a well-padded, well-dressed, middle-aged man with tiny, blackcurrant eyes. He nodded to Ray Cocks and plumped himself down in a pew by himself. Trixie turned her head to see who it was, and so did Ray. Evidently, they both knew him, for while Ray nodded at him, Trixie gave him a fleeting smile.
    A businessman, known to the family? What a sharp nose he had!
    Ellie thought,
The vultures are gathering …
and then wondered why she’d thought of birds of prey. Were the businessman and Leather Jacket here to feed on the corpse of the deceased? Ellie shuddered.
    The muzak was turned off. The minister was one of those who aimed to get through the service in twenty minutes and have a fag before the next coffin arrived.
    Ellie felt a surge of anger on behalf of Poppy, who was being tidied away in such a perfunctory fashion. She felt tears rise in her throat, and began to pray. She thought that, appearances to the contrary, someone else was also praying.
    Marika? Yes, probably.
    Also the grief-bound sister? Or, perhaps, the coffee-and-cream girl? The man in the wheelchair was white, so he couldn’t be her father. But if he wasn’t her father, then who was he?
    Muzak, muzak. A few short sentences to sum up the life of a woman who had worked hard and been much loved by her father, stepmother, and sister.
    The widower fidgeted.
    The man in the wheelchair gazed ahead, as still as the Sphinx. He moved once, to hold out his hand for something. A bottle of water from a bag at the back of his wheelchair? The invalid’s wife and the girl of mixed race ministered to him with clinical efficiency. Not tenderness. Just efficiency.
    Gerald Cordover wept, and Marika put her arm around him as far as she could. Neither of them was particularly sylph-like. Ellie was glad to see that someone, at least, was grieving for the departed woman.
    The coffin slid away into the wall and it was over. More muzak. A sigh of relief from someone.
    Gerald and Marika subsided into their seats. Mopping up. Recovering. Getting ready to face the world again.
    With a wide gesture, the man in the wheelchair indicated that he wished to depart. He seemed annoyed that his womenfolk didn’t spring to do his bidding straight away. Their movements were slow. They were both worn out with grief. Ellie told herself he might well be grieving, too. Not everyone grieved in the same way. She must not jump to conclusions.
    The widower and his daughter left their pew with a nod across the aisle to Juno, and a quick word with the neighbours a couple of pews back, the couple who hadn’t known anyone else. Yes, undoubtedly neighbours. Ellie could hear them saying how sorry they were, they felt they had to come; they’d known Poppy for so many years.
    The widower said the right things in a subdued, suitable-for-funerals voice. ‘So glad you could come, Poppy would have been pleased. I’m sure you’ll understand we’re not having a public wake, just family back to the house