"Daddy always said, ‘Just toss me in the pond and let the sunfish nibble on me,’" Alfred said. "If he was done and buried, he’d be rolling over in his grave at all the waste of it. How much was that coffin? Two thousand? Two-and-a-half?"

Widow Ridgehorn’s face collapsed, shriveled. The first sob came like a giggle, dry and nasal.

Go to her, Roby silently commanded. For the Good Lord’s sake, comfort the poor woman.

He would have done it himself, but some things were best left to family. Even though they thought he was part Ridgehorn, it wasn’t his place. Marlene was the one for the job. Not only was she the oldest, she was female, and Alfred had shown he wasn’t going to suffer any more uncontrolled outbursts of sensitivity. Anna Beth sat with her mouth hanging open, and Sarah was busy picking stray threads from the hem of her dress.

"When did you say the burial was?" Cindy Parsons said.

"Day after tomorrow," Alfred said.

Roby searched inside himself, found room to forgive Cindy. She’d not had many funerals herself. The Parsons clan was long-lived and didn’t breed much, so the losses were few and far between. Maybe after the sitting was over, he’d take her aside and advise her to listen to the daily obituaries on the local A.M. station.

The widow coughed a few times, swallowed her sobs, and wiped her eyes again. "Flowers need watering," she said.

White chrysanthemums. They were one of Barnaby’s specialties. He ran a floral arrangement on the side. One of his boys had turned out gay, but that was just the run of statistics and had nothing to do with growing up in the aftercare industry. The other boy was the one who ran the floral shop. Weddings, anniversaries, births, deaths, Barnaby took a cut from just about every memorable occasion, sad or joyful. He even had his ordaining papers and could perform a marriage if necessary.