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Weekly Contest #347
Delilah Winslow had been dead for three hours and had already ruined two marriages. Rain needled the chapel windows. Forty-three chairs. Half of them empty. In Dry Fork, Kansas, that counted as a crowd. The hydrangeas were the wrong shade of blue—periwinkle, not cobalt—and Mrs. Alden dabbed at eyes drier than communion wafers. "Delilah was… spirited," Mrs. Alden told the congregation, her voice gentle enough to smother a bonfire. Spirited. A backhanded compliment from a woman who'd never delivered a sincere one. Spirited was what people said...
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