Who's Kitten Who?

Who's Kitten Who? by Cynthia Baxter Read Free Book Online

Book: Who's Kitten Who? by Cynthia Baxter Read Free Book Online
Authors: Cynthia Baxter
Tags: Fiction
window set into the front door, and stained-glass panels framing the windows. I liked the fact that the people who had known Simon Wainwright would be able to say good-bye to him in such a warm, homey place.
    The scene outside, however, was anything but warm and homey. So many people had turned out for the wake that the parking lot was full. Drivers were fighting for spaces, with some abandoning their cars in nonexistent spots and even on the lawn. As for the cars, they were an interesting mix of Mercedeses, BMWs, flashy sports cars, and broken-down jalopies that looked as if they might need to be towed away. I figured the diversity reflected those who’d made it in show biz versus those who had yet to get their big break. I also spotted a few limousines, their drivers congregating near a fence where they smoked and chatted as they idly watched the crowd.
    As Betty and I walked arm in arm toward the front door, I realized that it wasn’t only the parking lot that was filled to capacity. The sprawling Victorian building was so packed that people actually spilled out onto the lawn. It was a warm spring day, with the oppressive humidity that was guaranteed to characterize the next several months already in evidence. But the sun was nowhere to be seen, hiding somewhere in a sky filled with gloomy gray clouds.
    We wove through the crowd, murmuring “Excuse me” over and over again as we tried to get inside. Something struck me as out of the ordinary: Many of the mourners were wearing outfits better suited to a stage than a wake. A man with bright orange-red hair sported an outrageous kelly green plaid suit. If it hadn’t been for his black velvet armband, I would have thought he was here to audition his vaudeville act. Several of the women wore long black gowns, some with trains and others decorated with sequins or feathers or fringe that made Aziza Zorn’s outfit from the day before look positively drab. I wondered if they’d bought them in a department store or rented them from a costume shop.
    “I guess a lot of the people who came here today are in the theater,” I commented to Betty as soon as we squeezed through the doorway. So many people were crammed inside, standing around and chatting animatedly, that I felt as if I were crashing a cocktail party.
    “Simon had developed quite a name for himself,” she replied. “His career was about to take off. Which makes this whole thing even harder to…” Her voice trailed off, ending with a choking sound.
    “Are you all right?” I asked anxiously, putting my arm around her shoulders.
    “I’m so sorry.” Sniffling, Betty scrounged around inside her purse for a tissue. “I thought I’d be able to handle this better.”
    “You have no reason to apologize!” I assured her. “I know how fond of Simon you were.” Glancing around, I added, “So were a lot of people.”
    She wiped her eyes. “Maybe I should take a minute to pull myself together. If you don’t mind, I’m going to pop into the ladies’ room.”
    “Take your time, Betty.”
    After she disappeared into the throng, I glanced around the front room of the funeral parlor, wondering how to occupy myself while I was on my own. I’m not generally that good at large gatherings, and the fact that this one was a wake made it even more difficult than usual.
    But I was curious about whether I’d see anyone I recognized. I immediately spotted Aziza Zorn, who was draped in black and standing alone in a corner, looking mournful. Derek Albright, the director, stood with a group that included some familiar-looking faces I was certain belonged to cast and crew members I’d seen at the theater the day before.
    I also noticed a man in an ill-fitting sports coat hovering in the corner, scanning the crowd. One of Falcone’s men, I figured. No doubt he was just as anxious as I was to see if anyone interesting had turned up to say good-bye to Simon Wainwright.
    I decided to head in a different direction. Beyond the

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