Read Online Mourning Glory by Warren Adler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Warren Adler
Tags: United States, Fiction, Literary, General, Suspense, Romance, Contemporary, Sagas, Thrillers, Espionage, Travel, South, South Atlantic
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assembled the automobile procession behind the hearse, and soon
the cars rolled out of the lot off to the cemetery. A few minutes later the
group from the other funeral passed out of the building and were efficiently
dispatched by the monitors in the direction of the burial ground.
She stood there in the empty lot for a long time, debating
her future course of action. She felt the devil's advocate inside of her
surrender. It was time to gird for action, take control of her own destiny,
muster her weapons and prepare for battle. Suddenly, she felt energized and
ready.
CHAPTER
THREE
The process became a daily round. She concentrated on the
obituary columns of the Palm Beach Post and, after attending a number of
funerals for "beloved wives of," she began to narrow down the
possibilities by assessing the relative cost of both the memorial sites and the
cemeteries where the internment was to take place. Naturally, she used the most
expensive places on which to concentrate her attention.
After a few weeks, she embellished her research by
searching out the homes of the deceased and making her funeral attendance
judgments on the size and location of the residences. She had quickly learned
that it was pointless to waste her time on what was not economically viable and
attended only those funerals of bona-fide wealthy ladies whose husbands had
outlived them.
She hadn't told Jackie about her campaign, reasoning that
if her daughter had been more aware and attuned to her mother's activities, she
would have noticed her unusual interest in the obituary columns. Nevertheless,
her effort and its daily routine had all the earmarks of job hunting, and she
would often return home in a state of obvious disappointment. By then, she had
gone through the processing routine at the unemployment office, and they had
promised that her first check would be coming in a few weeks.
"No luck, Mom?" Jackie would ask.
"Nope."
The fact was that the operation had more hope and promise
in theory than in practice. Opportunity was not as Mrs. Burns had characterized
it. Real prospects were difficult to find. She was, in fact, a fortune hunter,
and anyone with a fortune was by nature cagey and illusive. A male in this
enterprise would have a much easier time of it finding his mark. There was,
after all, no equality in the chronology of death. Statistics cited men
overwhelmingly as dying before women.
In three weeks, she had managed to attend several funerals,
none of which offered a truly viable candidate. Most were for older ladies in
their seventies and eighties whose husbands were out of her range. Some were in
wheelchairs; the others seemed comatose. Even so, she did consider the
possibility, but the price seemed far too high.
There were, however, moments of optimism. She attended one
for a woman in her fifties with a husband who was attractive and remarkably
stoic and appeared at first blush to be a perfect candidate. She had checked
out their home and had learned that the man was a well-known banker from Broward County.
Dressing carefully for this one, she arrived at the service
full of great expectations until she noted that the man sat in a row behind his
three grieving children and their spouses, which seemed unusual, until she
learned, as they were filing out, that the couple was in the midst of a bitter
divorce and the woman had died suddenly from an embolism that might have been
brought on by the tension.
"There's a relief," she overheard one of the
female attendees say as they filed out. "Now he can marry his nafka." Days later at a funeral she overheard both the word and its translation. Nafka meant whore in Yiddish.
One funeral of a woman in her early sixties did seem to
suggest a hopeful possibility. Her research informed her that the couple had
lived in a lovely old mansion off Banyan Road, one of the most expensive areas
of Palm Beach. The woman, Rebecca Horowitz, had been very social. Her husband
was reputed to have made a fortune in
the cars rolled out of the lot off to the cemetery. A few minutes later the
group from the other funeral passed out of the building and were efficiently
dispatched by the monitors in the direction of the burial ground.
She stood there in the empty lot for a long time, debating
her future course of action. She felt the devil's advocate inside of her
surrender. It was time to gird for action, take control of her own destiny,
muster her weapons and prepare for battle. Suddenly, she felt energized and
ready.
CHAPTER
THREE
The process became a daily round. She concentrated on the
obituary columns of the Palm Beach Post and, after attending a number of
funerals for "beloved wives of," she began to narrow down the
possibilities by assessing the relative cost of both the memorial sites and the
cemeteries where the internment was to take place. Naturally, she used the most
expensive places on which to concentrate her attention.
After a few weeks, she embellished her research by
searching out the homes of the deceased and making her funeral attendance
judgments on the size and location of the residences. She had quickly learned
that it was pointless to waste her time on what was not economically viable and
attended only those funerals of bona-fide wealthy ladies whose husbands had
outlived them.
She hadn't told Jackie about her campaign, reasoning that
if her daughter had been more aware and attuned to her mother's activities, she
would have noticed her unusual interest in the obituary columns. Nevertheless,
her effort and its daily routine had all the earmarks of job hunting, and she
would often return home in a state of obvious disappointment. By then, she had
gone through the processing routine at the unemployment office, and they had
promised that her first check would be coming in a few weeks.
"No luck, Mom?" Jackie would ask.
"Nope."
The fact was that the operation had more hope and promise
in theory than in practice. Opportunity was not as Mrs. Burns had characterized
it. Real prospects were difficult to find. She was, in fact, a fortune hunter,
and anyone with a fortune was by nature cagey and illusive. A male in this
enterprise would have a much easier time of it finding his mark. There was,
after all, no equality in the chronology of death. Statistics cited men
overwhelmingly as dying before women.
In three weeks, she had managed to attend several funerals,
none of which offered a truly viable candidate. Most were for older ladies in
their seventies and eighties whose husbands were out of her range. Some were in
wheelchairs; the others seemed comatose. Even so, she did consider the
possibility, but the price seemed far too high.
There were, however, moments of optimism. She attended one
for a woman in her fifties with a husband who was attractive and remarkably
stoic and appeared at first blush to be a perfect candidate. She had checked
out their home and had learned that the man was a well-known banker from Broward County.
Dressing carefully for this one, she arrived at the service
full of great expectations until she noted that the man sat in a row behind his
three grieving children and their spouses, which seemed unusual, until she
learned, as they were filing out, that the couple was in the midst of a bitter
divorce and the woman had died suddenly from an embolism that might have been
brought on by the tension.
"There's a relief," she overheard one of the
female attendees say as they filed out. "Now he can marry his nafka." Days later at a funeral she overheard both the word and its translation. Nafka meant whore in Yiddish.
One funeral of a woman in her early sixties did seem to
suggest a hopeful possibility. Her research informed her that the couple had
lived in a lovely old mansion off Banyan Road, one of the most expensive areas
of Palm Beach. The woman, Rebecca Horowitz, had been very social. Her husband
was reputed to have made a fortune in
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