Sylvie's Cowboy: Cinderella In Reverse

CHAPTER 3: THE MORTUARY

Miami –Tuesday evening—Four Days After the Explosion

Lithgow Funeral Home was an elegant building with white marble columns facing a hedge-bordered circular driveway. The front entrance mimicked the Academy Awards as wealthy mourners arrived in their chauffeur-driven gas guzzlers. Everyone who was anyone simply must be seen at the viewing of the late Harry Pace, and they must be seen at their best. The jewelry had come out of the safe deposit boxes for this one. The glittering ladies and their silk-penguin escorts craved the flash of the cameras, and the local media did not disappoint.

Inside a crowded reception room lined with ostentatious floral arrangements (sizes large, huge, and mammoth), spiraling sterling candelabra flanked a closed casket. An exquisite oil painting of Harry Pace rested on an easel at one end of the casket. A few of the attendees amused themselves speculating as to how many inches, or ounces, of Harry were actually inside the casket, which must have cost as much as a Space Shuttle.

Sylvie Pace, young, blonde and beautiful (in a cover-of-Vogue sort of way) in a thousand-dollar simple black dress, graciously shook the hands of whatever mourners stopped by her chair to pay respects.

Dan Stern sat attentively on Sylvie's right. He was a little older, a lot taller and darker, and a little less beautiful than Sylvie. But Dan always cut a fine figure in his expensive suits and hand-made Ostrich-skin boots.

Together Sylvie and Dan were the South Florida equivalent of royalty on glorious display.

Leslye Larrimore, looking strained despite her professionally applied makeup, caught Dan's eye from somewhere in the crowd. He gave her a "come hither" gesture. After a few moments of careful maneuvering, Les arrived at Dan's chair. He rose to whisper to her.

"Stay with Sylvie a minute, will you?" said Dan. "I've gotta go outside for a smoke."

"Nasty habit," Leslye told him before taking her seat in the chair he had vacated.

"Yeah, so's Valium," was his snarky reply.

Leslye sent him an overly sweet smile, and Dan headed for the nearest exit.

Walt McGurk's red pickup with yellow doors rolled into the funeral home parking lot just as Dan emerged with an unlit cigarette in his mouth. Dan must have recognized the truck, because Walt stepped out of the driver's side door to find his path blocked by Dan Stern, casually lighting a cigarette.

"Thought you had quit," Walt said. "Smart folks have."

Dan scowled at Walt's black western shirt, black jeans, black Stetson hat, and black boots. "You've got no business here, Dogpatch," said Dan. "Why don't you save Sylvie and the rest of us some embarrassment and just mosey on back to the ranch." He blew a smoke ring directly into Walt's face.

Walt dismissed Dan with a look and walked past him toward the funeral home entrance.

Dan tossed his freshly lit cigarette to the ground and followed. At the door, Dan grabbed Walt's shoulder and pulled him aside. "What are you trying to do?"

"Just tryin' to pay my respects," said Walt.

"Respect! You and Harry fought like alley cats. Neither one of you ever showed any 'respect' to the other one."

"I didn't come to see Harry. I came to see Sylvie."

Walt shook off Dan's grip and entered the building. Once inside, he worked his way through the throng toward Sylvie's chair. The high-society, glammed-to-the-max crowd scorned his horse-ranch attire with looks and whispered comments. Walt ignored them and presented himself before Sylvie's chair. He removed his hat, took her hand, and pulled her up to walk with him to the closed casket.