THERE WERE ALREADY at least a dozen casseroles (half of them Chicken Divan) in freezer-appropriate, labeled, and dated containers by the time Myrtle made it over to Connor’s house. There were even some hand-written notes of condolence on the front table.
In the case of a single man like Connor, it would be assumed by the well-meaning ladies of the church that he wouldn’t be aware of anything that needed to be done for the funeral. Mrs. Dawkins, a gray-haired dragon, was dispatched from Agnes’ church circle to drop in on Connor. She arrived bearing a steno pad and pencil and demanding information for the obituary. The annoying thing about Mrs. Dawkins was that she kept asking questions that she clearly knew the answers to. “Your mother held office for the Bradley Garden Club, didn’t she?”
