Organ music played softly in the background, and Kathleen watched the church fill with Scott’s friends and acquaintances. The funeral drew the cream of Sedona’s society. Wealthy businessmen came dressed in dark suits, a far cry from their usual casual attire. They knew Scott from the years he served as president of the chamber of commerce. Their wives were dressed in spring finery despite the cold weather. They wore silk suits and dresses, expensive rings on their pampered hands.
Other mourners included land developers, real estate brokers, politicians, and community leaders. They spoke quietly, consoling each other over the tragedy of Scott’s untimely death.
A few made an effort to seek out Kathleen. Irene Hemp, president of the taxpayers association, walked to Kathleen’s pew, leaned over and gave her a hug.
“What a horrible shock! I can’t believe it. Have the police told you anything?”
It was apparent the older woman had been crying. Her mascara was already smudged beneath her eyes.
“I was told he hit an ice pocket early Easter morning about 100 feet from the curve at the bridge near Tlaquepaque, lost control of the car and slammed into the railing. He died instantly.” Kathleen’s voice was low, controlled.
Irene shook her head. “Who would have thought Scott Buckley would die like that? My God, this town will never see another like him. No one will ever do what he did.”
The dark humor of the comment crossed Kathleen’s mind, but she remained silent. She dropped her eyes, fearing Irene would see her real feelings, but the other woman was engulfed in her own grief. As Irene moved away, Kathleen saw others glance at her. Many more ignored her, not looking in her direction even though she had known them for years. She was glad she wore the large black hat, and moved it closer around her face, physically and emotionally hiding in it.
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