"Give rest, O our Savior, with the Just, to Thy servants…"
The girl in the corner of the somber oratory twiddled the pair of Dijon-colored clackers as quietly as humanly possible. Her shaggy crimson painted wig practically framed her face maniacally. Her figure lolled over, as if she were just struck in the back by almighty Zeus himself. If boredom had a personification, she was it.
"…and set them in Thy courts, as it is written."
On that Sunday morning, Frieda finally revealed to herself, after these seven years of being dragged away to those fowl, bourgeoisie cathedral walls:
"I loathe the décor and I want some pastila."
Frieda pushed her back on the pillar; arms flaccid like wet dough. The cold, wooden floor echoing the quiet ambience of footsteps around her. Frieda spent most of her days doing this. Well, she used to have a decent job as a librarian to keep her entertained. Fun little job, she'd earned it herself and it paid her bills. But that impious clergy Nick convinced her to quit in another one of his late night "religious" examples.
Playing with the flaps of her trapper hat, Frieda stared across the cathedral at the funeral actively going on in front of her. Curious, she had begun analyzing the patrons. Who here was a victim? And who was just here to seek their last-minute inheritance?
Frieda's eyes lock on a woman. A woman staring down at the open casket in front of her. Her bright, baby pink wrap coat stood out in the dense crowd of mourners. Dawning her head was a matching pillbox hat. Frieda came to the conclusion that this was the deceased man's wife. Though that could be a barrel jump, considering the woman's lack of visible grief on her face could throw anyone off, including a crackerjack hitman such as Frieda.
Frieda then turned her gaze at the little girl next to the Pillbox Woman. She was a just girl, nothing of importance to note. It was safe to assume she was the couple's daughter.
Then there was the clergy. A tall, loud man who preached the word of Christianity like no tomorrow. Whose tolerance was that of a fascist Eastern tyrant. It would be less than an understatement to claim that Frieda outright despised the man's overzealous religious banter. But it'd be a sleight of mouth to say she didn't respect his hustle.
Still, though. His banter could use some work.
Frieda drifted away from the pillar she'd used for support, using her cane to maneuver her way towards the crowd of downcast.
"Oh, another member of the Church?" a thin, vexatious voice asked from Frieda's left. A quick tilt revealed that it was the Pillbox woman she'd seen earlier. A cursory glance at her appearance showed she was clearly emotional. Her were glossy, her mouth quivered and her makeup, while not heavy, a mess.
"Nah, I'm just the Clergy's help. The name's Frieda. You're the victim's wife, right?" Frieda asked, voice quite enough for the both of them to hear.
"Alma," she said meekly. "Lenz Alma. And yes, you could say that…"
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"No need to be," she glanced back at the casket. "I've been told that enough."
"I bet so. Still though, I heard he was murdered. That's rough." Frieda stated rather nonchalantly. Alma cautiously rubbed her daughter's head.
"It was rather tragic, yes." She said, not taking her eyes off the casket.
A moment or two of silence rolled between them.
Frieda lifted her head towards the cathedral ceiling. Staring at the painted-on cherubs flying about on the light blue surface, she suddenly asked;
"So," she swings her cane slightly over the marble. "Why'd you do it?"
"Excuse me..."
"Outside of the Church. I saw you talk to a man in a black and red foreign car. Not so suspicious."
"Of course, but..."
"Until I saw you get inside. The door side was labelled for "Reiss". A fashion company, odd enough."
"I beg your pardon..."
"Came out, makeup smudged, wasn't that way before."
"I was upset!"
"Sure, that makes sense after all, it's your husband's funeral. But your face didn't match the look. Who laughs at a funeral?"
"I wasn't..."
"Also, your coat just so happens to be a rival brand of your significant other's fashion line."
"How would…"
"I noticed your coat. A cashmere wrap coat. That's a Reiss original, right?" Frieda pulled a tag out of the inside of Alma's coat. "Pretty expensive. Not common to see in any shops that sell this brand in Maria."
Silence.
"I just wanted my God given reward." Alma finally said.
Frieda shifted her gaze from the ceiling to the widow. Alma's expression hardened. Any trace of sorrow for her former significant other seemed to have slowly vanished. Her eyes stared at the body in the reliquary in front. Somehow, her pillbox hat was grasped in her left hand.
In her right was her child's.
"My daughter, Historia. She's Reiss's last born."
"Oh, I think I see now." Frieda looked down at the toddler. "She is a bastard, right?"
Alma nodded.
"Then why did you court with Mr. Reiss, anyways? Was it for money?" Frieda asked. Alma sighed, she slowly pulled a small sheet of notebook paper out.
On the paper, the words: "1 Corinthians 11:11"
"A bible verse?" Frieda questioned. "What does this mean?"
Alma snickered under her breath as Frieda shot her a questioned look. "Nothing important. But word of advice, Frieda ?"
"Yes, ma'am?"
"You're smart. And mystifyingly perceptive. But there's just one thing I hadn't expected you to forget." Alma said rather disappointedly.
"What is that, ma'am?"
"You're still wearing the clothes you killed him in." Alma pointed out as Frieda eyed down her torso to see that she was, infact, still wearing the turtleneck from three days prior. Time does indeed fly when you're busy working.
Silence.
"Damn. You've got me, Miss Alma." Frieda smiled.
"Oh, that was a lovely service, wasn't it, Alma?" a heavyset woman had asked the widow.
"Yes, mother. It was."
Frieda leaned on a pillar outside the chapel. In her right hand she twiddled a pair of Dijon-colored clackers. Her shaggy currant painted wig that practically framed her face maniacally covered by a rust-colored trapper hat.
On that Sunday afternoon, Frieda had revealed to herself, that after these seven years of being dragged away to those fowl, bourgeoisie cathedral walls:
"Well, that was surprisingly fun. Now I want some pastila."