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suspenders rendered their coordinated outfits more appropriate for Halloween than for a funeral.
    “We liked her,” said Earl, or maybe it was Burl. His brother stood by his side, nodding. “She was a nice lady. Whenever we did work for her, she tipped us real good.”
    “Real good,” his brother agreed.
    There was a ripple of laughter from the audience.
    The speaker pushed his brother aside and leaned into the microphone. “And she never made fun of us,” he said.
    The twins sat down and others took their place.
    I had thought of Portia Carpenter—that was her maiden name—as a quiet woman, self-confident, yes, but never particularly outspoken on issues. Unmarried, she had been Judge Ralph Mackin’s secretary for many years. The judge was a man who appreciated efficiency and frowned on ostentation. Portia had suited him perfectly. Conservative in dress, appearance, and demeanor, she had run his office like a well-oiled machine, retiring only when her failing eyesight made it too difficult to read the fine type in the law books for the citations required by the judge. At her funeral, I discovered another Portia, one I was sorry I hadn’t known before. Her new friends praised her leadership, her energy, her fortitude in the face of tremendous odds against her.
    “Portia was never one to leave the fight to others.” The speaker was Minnie Lewis, Sam’s wife. She was taller than her husband, her short steel-gray hair carefully coiffed and her pale blue eyes enlarged by thick glasses.
    “When the management threatened to evict Gertie Joule if she didn’t get rid of her cats, Portia challenged the no-pets rule and won. When Portia discovered that some of our seniors weren’t eating properly, she organized the Lunch Club, recruiting those of us who still cook to demonstrate how to make delicious, healthy meals. That’s where I met Portia, and that was the beginning of our Resident Wisdom program.”
    As I listened to Minnie’s eulogy, another sound caught my ear. Monica Kotansky, in a sleeveless black dress, Snowy perched on her lap, lifted a handkerchief to her eyes, her gold bangle bracelets jangling as they slid into each other. She had seated herself in the first row, across the aisle from the new widower, Clarence, who sat alone. The soft clatter of her bracelets caused Clarence to glance over at Monica, who gave him a wan smile and wiggled her fingers at him. Clarence lowered his eyes. Carrie, who had been helping out in the kitchen at Clarence’s apartment and now sat next to Monica, tugged on her arm and whispered something in her ear, causing Monica to straighten in her seat and lift her chin, assuming an attitude of interest in the speaker. The dog struck the same pose.
    I wondered if Monica Kotansky had been one of the women Helen Davison had said pursued Clarence before he married Portia. If so, how long would it be before she again tried to gain his interest? I looked around at the roomful of mourners. Were there others here already thinking of Clarence as a potential husband now that his wife was dead? Had Portia worried about holding on to Clarence? Had she tried to lose weight, thinking she would make herself more appealing to him? If so, she may have paid a terrible price for vanity. I hoped that wasn’t the case, but the presence of a dangerous diet drug among her daily pills was disturbing. Of course, the autopsy would tell us more, if we were able to get a copy of the results. I made a mental note to suggest to Mort that he check with the police to see when the report was expected back.
    “Portia was an inspiration, and I was proud to call her friend,” Minnie continued. “I can think of no better tribute to Portia than for us to follow in her foot-steps and take up the torch she has had to lay down. If we accomplish that, we will have honored her memory in the most significant way.”
    The eulogies were succeeded by a final prayer, and the minister announced that Portia had requested a