Harry and I head inside first. Louisa follows, flanked by her escorts, the Kydd trailing a few steps behind. A slight, fussy sort of man greets us, his mustache so straight it looks like someone painted it above his lip. He directs us down a short hallway to double doors at the end.

We walk through the open doors into a good-size room facing the water. White wooden folding chairs—about a hundred of them—are set up in rows, five on each side of the room, creating a wide aisle in the center. Most of the seats are already filled, even the two rows in front, which are roped off with red velvet.

Harry points to three vacant chairs on the end of row four. He goes in first and takes a seat next to Louisa’s ex, Glen Powers. I follow, the Kydd right behind me. Glen looks up and nods a silent greeting to all of us. I wonder how long it’s been since he and Harry have seen each other.

Harry leans over to whisper to me, “Have you two met?” He points a thumb toward Glen Powers.

“Yes,” I answer. “I met him on Sunday.”

“Well, that’s just ducky,” Harry says, feigning a huff.

“What does that mean?”

“Oh, nothing,” he answers. “But the last time Powers met a woman I was seeing, he married her.”

I frown at him.

Louisa and her bookends continue down the aisle, until yet another slight, fussy sort of man stops them. “I’m sorry,” he says, pointing backward at the roped-off rows. “These are reserved for family.”

“She is family,” one of the matrons snaps.

The fussy man seems taken aback.

“It’s all right,” Louisa says, pointing backward to three empty chairs directly in front of ours. “I’ll be fine right there.”

“You sure?” The other escort is ready to take on the fussy little man too. It occurs to me that the matrons act as if they’re Louisa’s big sisters. They might bully her at will, but they’re sure as hell not going to let an outsider get away with it.

“I think it’s best,” Louisa says. And she’s right, of course. It is. Nothing good will come of her sitting anywhere near the wicked stepdaughter.

In the front of the room, the windows frame lush green hills rolling down to open ocean. Against that backdrop stands an oak podium, complete with microphone and stainless steel water pitcher. Next to it is a small table draped in smooth white linen. It holds a fragrant but gaudy flower arrangement—gold and russet mums trimmed with black crepe bows. Anastasia’s selection, no doubt.

On one side of the vase stands an eight-by-ten framed photograph of the deceased wearing a tuxedo. On the other, a dull brass urn a few inches taller than the frame looks like it might have been salvaged from the set of I Dream of Jeannie. The Kydd points to it and his eyes grow wide as he shifts in his chair to face me. “Is Mr. Rawlings in that?” he whispers.

I nod.

In front of us, Louisa’s shoulders shake gently, but her laughter doesn’t make a sound. “Mawkish,” she whispers back to us. “Wouldn’t you say?”

She’s facing front, so she can’t see us, but we all nod anyway. It is.

Keening. From the back of the room comes a howl that can only belong to one person, and Louisa’s shoulders shake slightly again. And again, she doesn’t make a sound.

All heads in the room turn and the wailing ratchets up a notch, in pitch as well as volume. Anastasia is flanked by Lance Phillips and Steven Collier, each of them holding the entire length of one of her forearms, elbow to wrist. She’s dressed in her usual getup, but she’s added a sheer black veil for today’s events. It covers her face entirely, falling below her collar in front, slightly longer in back.

“Now that’s a damned good idea.” Harry’s whisper is a little too loud and Glen Powers covers his mouth with his hand. “She’s a vision, don’t you think?” Harry asks this question of anyone who’ll listen. Glen Powers nods again.

Anastasia begins what promises to be a lengthy, slow-motion trek down the center aisle. Steven Collier almost lifts her from the floor by her forearm, Lance Phillips not quite managing the same on his side. Her wails roll out in waves now, beginning as guttural blubbering, cresting as eardrum-shattering yowls. Her head rolls in steady rhythm with the waves, face and hair shroud downward as each one begins, head thrown back and veiled face skyward as each one peaks. Her pattern changes, though, as she approaches us, and I realize this grim scene is about to take a turn toward the macabre.

The clodhoppers stop short when she reaches Louisa’s row, forcing Collier to an abrupt halt and making Lance trip over his own feet. For a split second there’s not a sound in the room. Anastasia’s liberally linered eyes glare through the veil at Louisa and I’m relieved to see that Louisa isn’t looking back at her. She sits calmly between her escorts, facing the front of the room, as if she’s entirely unaware of Anastasia’s presence.

Into the silence Anastasia unleashes the worst shriek of the day. More than a few of the mourners actually press their hands to their ears. The matron in the aisle seat gets to her feet, faces Anastasia, and points, telling her and her ushers to move on. I’m grateful—and more than a little surprised—when Anastasia obeys. I’m reminded once again of the unparalleled power of an unconcealed weapon.

With no small amount of coaxing from Collier, Anastasia makes it to the front row and collapses with great fanfare into the second chair from the aisle. Elizabeth Taylor could learn a thing or two from Anastasia Rawlings. I’m happy to see Lance dutifully fetch a glass of water from the pitcher at the podium. He can’t deliver it fast enough, as far as I’m concerned. And I’m fairly certain everyone else in the room is thinking the same thing. Anastasia will have to shut up, at least for a few seconds, to swallow.

The two men take their seats at the same time, Lance on the aisle, Collier on the other side of the bereft only child. The water seems to help the situation. She’s actually quiet for a minute, and then her wailing resumes at a more bearable decibel. Apparently satisfied that she’s settled, Collier gets to his feet, checks his watch, and then walks to the podium with a few sheets of paper in hand. A mechanical screech fills the room as he tests the mike and adjusts it. At least it’s a change from the human sounds we’ve been enduring.

“Good morning,” he says, and those assembled wish him the same. “I’d like to welcome all of you to Eastward Edge. We’re here, of course, to honor the life of this great man.” He points to the framed photo. “Herbert Andrew Rawlings.”

Anastasia keens again, her head rolling onto Lance’s shoulder, and Collier waits. When the noise subsides, he continues. “The family has asked me to say a few words about Herb at this time, and I feel privileged to do so.”

At long last, Steven Collier has found a spot in the limelight.

“After that,” he says, “we’ll hear from Paul Bagley.” Collier points to the front-row aisle seat opposite Lance’s and nods a greeting. “Paul was Herb’s business partner for more than thirty years. He’ll tell us about Herb’s long and distinguished career in the practice of law, his service on more than a few prestigious committees of the bar association, and his tireless, lifelong devotion to his many corporate clients, large and small.”

Collier stops, pours a glass of water for himself, and sips, turning a page in his notes. “And finally,” he says, pointing to the chair next to Mr. Bagley, “the Reverend Burrows will read from Scripture and lead us in prayer.” Collier sets his glass down and lowers his head, as if we’re praying already.

After a moment of silence, he takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, apparently gearing up to deliver the meat of his eulogy. “Herb Rawlings,” he says, “was first and foremost a family man. He was devoted to his wife of more than twenty years…”