Chapter 2 - The Hyenas Gather
The morning of the funeral wake brought an early freeze that glazed the rural country roads with black ice. The small country chapel in Cardington smelled of damp wool coats, cheap carnations, and melting snow.
I sat quietly in the front row, wearing a simple black wool coat, holding little Leo’s hand. Thomas sat beside me, his red-rimmed eyes staring blankly at his mother's simple pine casket. He was a quiet, decent man, but years of crushing labor and the emotional indifference of his older siblings had worn down his spirit.
Behind us sat Derek, Brenda, and Fiona’s two daughters, Cheryl and Amanda. They were whispering among themselves, their voices dripping with impatient calculation rather than grief.
"We need to get the house listed before spring," Cheryl whispered loudly enough for three rows to hear, adjusting her designer faux-fur collar. "The county assessed the parcel at barely eighty thousand, but if we clean out the clutter and slap some vinyl siding on it, some commuter from Columbus will pay one-twenty. Split four ways, that's thirty grand each."
"Thirty grand isn't enough to cover my credit cards," Brenda chimed in, chewing gum with a sharp snap. "Fiona must have had something else. What about Henry’s old coins? Or the antique sideboard in the parlor? We can't let Mabel haul everything off. She’s already taken enough."
Thomas stiffened beside me, his fists clenching on his knees, but I placed a gentle, calming hand over his knuckles. "Not here, Thomas. Let your mother have peace today."
After the burial at the churchyard cemetery, where the cold Ohio mud swallowed Fiona’s casket under a gray winter sky, the entire family converged back on our small farmhouse. They didn't come to comfort Thomas. They came with cardboard moving boxes, rolls of brown packing tape, and legal notepads.
"Alright, let's get organized," Derek announced as soon as he stomped his snow-covered boots onto my clean kitchen linoleum. He didn't even take off his leather jacket. "We have to inventory every asset in this house before Monday. As the eldest son, I’m executor by default."
"Mom didn't leave a will with the probate court, Derek," Thomas said, standing in the doorway of the living room, his voice raspy from exhaustion. "She had no savings accounts. Just her medical bills, which Mabel and I have been paying on payment plans for six years."
Brenda let out a dry, dismissive snort, leaning against my kitchen counter. "Oh, please, Thomas. Everyone knows old farm widows squirrel cash away in mattress linings and mason jars. Don't play dumb. You two lived with her for twelve years rent-free. If there's cash in this house, it belongs to the bloodline. Not the help."
The word hit the room like a slap. The help.
Thomas took a furious step forward, his jaw tight. "Mabel wiped our mother's backside when she had pneumonia! She spent her youth lifting Mom into wheelchairs while you were in Florida on vacation! Don't you dare call my wife 'the help'!"
"Look, let's cut the drama," Cheryl interjected, crossing her arms. "Where are the personal effects from her bedroom? The jewelry box? The nightstand contents?"
"There was no jewelry box," I said calmly, stepping forward into the center of the kitchen. "Her costume earrings and her plastic hairpins are in the top drawer. You're welcome to take them."
Derek's eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. He pointed a finger at the far corner of the kitchen counter, where Fiona’s torn, faded pillow sat quietly beside the breadbox.
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"You took that pillow yesterday at the hospital," Derek snapped, stepping toward the counter. "You snatched it out of my hands like your life depended on it. Why? What’s inside that dirty thing, Mabel?"
Brenda’s eyes flashed with predatory greed. "I knew it! She hid something in the feathers! Hand it over right now!"
