Dying for a Change by Kathleen Delaney

work. “Here’s two more listings.” He puffed out his chest a little. “Two in one day, not bad. We need to get these in the computer right away.”
    Dottie ducked her head and said nothing. Ray turned toward me.
    “ It won’t be long, Ellen, and you’ll be doing a lot of business too. Maybe not as much as I do, but a lot.”
    Now there was a man who knew how to give a compliment.
    “ You got an appointment?” he went on, striding toward the door, holding it open for me. I glanced back at Dottie, who had her eyes glued onto her desk. Oh, well.
    “ You might say that,” I told Ray, and, head held high, walked out the door.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    I drove slowly up in front of the Sawyers’ house and parked. This isn’t a good idea, I told myself. However, my father used to play golf with Hank, my aunt was on the church committee with Vera, it was my duty to pay a condolence call. Wasn’t it?
    I stared at the house for a moment, trying to decide. The house surprised me. Hank was supposed to be the most successful builder in town, and I had expected a home that would show off his skills, also his financial condition. This house was nice enough, but hardly prestigious. A rambling ranch style with the shake roof and diamond pattern windows popular years ago, it showed a lot of loving care in its neatly mowed lawn and trimmed bushes. Still, it spoke gently of middle age. A few winter pansies poked their heads out of wine barrels on the front porch, and the camellias and azaleas banked against the front of the house looked as if they were trying to beat spring and bloom early.
    There were several cars parked in the driveway and in front of the house. As I watched, the front door opened. A woman came down the front steps and another, younger one said, “Thank you again.” She paused, looked at me sitting in the car, then slowly went back inside and closed the door.
    No more decisions. I’d been spotted, and it would be the ultimate insult to the bereaved if I didn’t go inside. Too bad I didn’t have an offering. I’d forgotten the small town custom about funerals. You take two things to the family, sympathy and food. By now the Sawyer kitchen would be filled with more hams, platters of fried chicken, casseroles, Jell-O salads, and chocolate cakes than the family would be able to eat in a month. However, since the entire town would be stopping by tomorrow after the service, leftovers wouldn’t be a problem.
    I rang the bell and the same young woman answered. She was in her early twenties and probably usually very pretty. Now she looked drawn and tired, her long, dark hair pulled back carelessly and fastened with a large barrette.
    “ Yes?” She looked at me uncertainly, not sure if she should know me.
    “ I’m Ellen McKenzie. I stopped by to see Mrs. Sawyer and offer my condolences.” I was feeling more uncomfortable by the minute. Why on earth had I thought this a good idea? “This is probably a bad time. If you would tell her I stopped by and how sorry I am, I’d be grateful.”
    I started to back away from the door in preparation for a cowardly flight back to my car.
    “ Oh, no.” She opened the door wide. “I’m sure Gran would want to see you. Please come in.”
    Escape now impossible, I stepped into the small entryway. I could hear the low murmur of voices coming from what was plainly the kitchen. A woman about my age came through the door into the entry hall where we were standing.
    “ Ellen Page, how good of you to come. Only it’s McKenzie now, isn’t it. I’m Violet. You probably don’t remember me. I was a senior when you were a freshman. Come into the living room, please. Mother’s in there.”
    She was right. I didn’t remember her, and I felt more and more that coming was a mistake.
    I’m not sure I had a mental picture of Vera, but if I had, it wasn’t this small, slightly plump woman sitting in the overstuffed rocker, her feet barely touching the floor. Her salt and pepper hair