BEVERLY BARTON - The Black Widow

As the light drizzle increased and quickly turned into a downpour, black umbrellas popped open to shield the small crowd of mourners surrounding the open gravesite. The scalloped edges of the burgundy-red canopy sheltering the immediate family, seated in double rows of four chairs each, flapped loudly as the April wind whipped unmercifully through the nearby trees.

Small town, southern cemeteries were pretty much inter-changeable, many of the headstones dating back to the early 1800s and a few graves marked with only large rocks. Rick figured that, for the most part, his dirt poor ancestors lay in unmarked graves throughout the South, from Virginia to Kentucky and on into his home state of Mississippi. His father had been the first in his family to acquire a high school diploma and Rick had been the first to graduate from college. He had about as much in common with the dearly departed senator as a buzzard has in common with a peacock.

The woman at Rick’s side raised her open umbrella just enough to clear the top of his head, which due to her being five-ten meant she’d lifted it only a few inches to accommodate his six-two height. Nicole Powell was his boss’s wife—actually she was Griff’s bride of seven months and co-owner of the Powell Private Security and Investigation Agency. If Griff wasn’t out of the country right now, he’d be here instead of Rick, who had worked for the agency the past five years.

As the minister uttered the final prayer in the 20-minute ceremony that had included the mournful wail of a bagpiper’s rendition of “Amazing Grace,” Rick shifted his attention from Nicole back to Mrs. Price. She sat ramrod straight, her chin tilted upward, her teeth clenched, and her eyelids slowly closing. Reverent enough to shut her eyes, but not enough to bow her head, the widow took a deep breath. Was she weary of having to pretend to care and wishing this day would end? Or was she desperately trying to control any emotion she might feel?

The man sitting beside Jordan Price casually reached over and grasped her folded hands resting in her lap, then took one hand in his and clutched it tightly. She didn’t react in any way when he placed their entwined hands between them. Rick sensed these two shared an intimate bond. Nic had told him that this sinfully handsome guy, who at the funeral had showed far more emotion than the widow, had been Dan Price’s assistant for 12 years. Rumor had it that Devon Markham had been like a son to the senator. So, what did that make him to the senator’s attractive, young wife? A friend or a lover?

The minister, a gray-haired gentleman with a kind face and a commanding voice, ended the service by inviting those in attendance to join the family at the Price home for an after-funeral reception. This type of affair was the southern, Protestant version of a wake.

While the others seated stood up and shook hands with the preacher, Markham assisted the widow to her feet, placed his arm around her waist and took a protective stand at her side.

“Let’s get out of here,” Nicole whispered. “I’ll wait and speak to Claire and Ryan at the reception.”

“Did they tell you why they were interested in hiring Powell’s?” Rick kept in step with Nic’s long-legged gait as they made their way toward her Escalade.

“No. All Claire said when she called to tell me about Dan Price’s funeral arrangements was that Ryan needed to speak to me after the funeral about hiring Powell’s. Considering what she and Ryan were going through at the time, I thought the particulars could wait.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Rick took one final look at Mrs. Price. Dry-eyed and rigid, she spoke to the minister. Markham clung to her, not she to him, which implied that she was the stronger of the two and they both knew it.

What was it about the woman that intrigued Rick so? Maybe it was nothing more than her being beautiful. Beautiful, fragile, vulnerable—and heartless. His instincts were usually right on the money and it was highly unlikely he was wrong this time, but for some gut-level reason, he wanted to be wrong about the widow being heartless.

Nicole stopped, turned, and called to him. “What’s the matter?”

He realized Nic had walked on ahead of him and he was standing in the rain staring at a woman he didn’t know and instinctively didn’t like. He caught up with Nic, clicked the OPEN button on his remote to unlock the SUV, and then rushed to open the passenger door for her.

Once seated inside, he started the engine and backed up the car. “What do you know about Jordan Price?”

Nicole shrugged. “Not much really. Counting today, I’ve met her a total of four times. The first time was Claire and Ryan’s wedding. Then again at Michael’s christening and the last time was at her wedding, when she married Dan.”

Rick drove slowly down the narrow one-lane road that led out of Oak Hill Cemetery. “She’s a lot younger than he was. Do you think she married him for his money?”

Nic laughed. “I have no idea.” She glanced at Rick. “Why so curious about Jordan Price?”

Rick’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. Damn good question. Why was he so curious about the widow? Yeah, sure, he found her attractive. And yeah, her seemingly unfeeling attitude disturbed him. Maybe she reminded him a little too much of his own callous, conniving stepmother, who had sucked his father dry during their marriage and had cheated Rick and his sister out of their meager inheritance.

Rick grunted. “Damn if I know. I just thought it odd that the lady hasn’t shed a tear all day.”

“Some people cry in private,” Nic said. “And the reality of death doesn’t always hit a person right away. It often catches up with them weeks later and then they fall apart.”

“Yeah, either is a possibility.”

“But you’re not buying it, are you?”

“Young, beautiful widow buries older, wealthy husband, without any show of emotion whatsoever. And the husband’s handsome, young assistant holds her hand and clings to her during the funeral.”

“You’re painting a really ugly picture, you know. Dan Price committed suicide. He wasn’t murdered. Besides, Claire and Ryan like Jordan. And if Jordan hadn’t been a good wife to Dan, neither Claire nor Ryan would think so highly of her, would they?”

“Hey, it’s nothing to me one way or another,” Rick said. “It’s not my family, not my concern. I don’t know these people.”

And he didn’t want to know them, especially not Jordan. But if Ryan Price hired Powell’s and he was assigned to the case—what then?

She watched from an upstairs window as the hordes descended on Price Manor, Dan’s ancestral home.

A gray day, with the heavens weeping, seemed appropriate for the funeral services. Daniel Price had been loved and respected. It was only fitting that the weather reflected the somber mood of the occasion.

We made it through the funeral without breaking down. That’s good. The reception won’t be as difficult. We’ll be able to reminisce about Dan without being morbid. We can laugh about our memories of him instead of cry. In many ways, Dan was a truly good man. A good husband. But if he’d been allowed to live, he would have become a very bad husband, a noose around our necks, a burden we shouldn’t have had to bear.

It will take time for us to heal from this tragedy, but eventually, we’ll move on, just as we’ve done in the past.

She hadn’t wanted to kill Dan, but she’d had no choice. Not really. If only he had followed through with his plans and had killed himself, he could have saved her the trouble. But apparently, he had lost his nerve at the last minute. As much as she had cared for Dan, she had realized that she couldn’t allow him to ruin their lives. If he had lived, they would have suffered along with him each day. It would have been so unfair. Hadn’t they already suffered enough? By killing Dan, she had protected them from years of anguish. And in the long run, his early death had been truly merciful for him, too. With Dan and his problems out of the way, they could look forward to raising their baby without the burden of a sick husband.