Mourning Glory Read Online Free Page B

in
trade of winners like Mrs. Burns. They wore their bitchery like a badge of
honor, proof that their ruthlessness was equal to men's.
    "I'm going to give you a bit of advice, Grace,"
she said, her eyes glazing as she moved her head in the direction of the
window, as if she were speaking to the pedestrians along Worth Avenue. "We
are in Palm Beach, Florida, the ideal hunting ground for Mr. Big Bucks. In this
wasteland, they are everywhere, like pebbles on the beach." She sucked in
a deep breath and lowered her voice.
    Pamela Burns paused; her nostrils flared, a tiny smile
lifted her lips. "Find yourself an older wealthy man, a widower, fresh
from the burial ground, someone who in his vulnerability can appreciate a
good-looking woman like yourself to share his bed and his fortune. Mostly the
latter, of course, although the bed will be the conduit. You should hone your
technique in that department, Grace.
    "To a successful man of declining years, used to
control, that part, man's best friend, is your ally. Pay it special attention.
Secure your old age. No one will do it for you. Make yourself a mover of
merchandise instead of a mere dispenser. It is better for your tuchas to
be a receiver of the pucker than to be obliged to offer it. Seek out and find
Mr. Big Bucks."
    Grace was stunned and incredulous by the cool cynicism of
Mrs. Burns's remarks. She couldn't believe her ears.
    "What are you saying, Mrs. Burns?" Grace said,
barely able to absorb the information presented. It seemed so out of character,
so ruthless and calculating. Mrs. Burns turned her gaze from the window and
focused on Grace.
    "I'm simply saying find yourself a wealthy man who has
just buried his wife."
    "A wealthy widower?" Grace muttered, still in
disbelieving mode. "A millionaire?"
    "My dear girl, millionaire is such a passé
term. It no longer connotes serious money. Learn the modern interpretation of
numbers. It will open your eyes. Think in terms of a section."
    "A section?"
    "A hundred mil. You may not make it, but as the poet
said, let your reach exceed your grasp. They are out there, believe me."
    "Why are you telling me this, Mrs. Burns?"
    "Because I am wracked with guilt. I hate doing this to
you. I also hate Mrs. Milton-Dennison." She lowered her voice. "Lousy
old cunt."
    "Is there a guidebook on how one goes about
accomplishing this feat?" Grace asked, hoping that Mrs. Burns would get
the facetiousness and sneering sarcasm of her remark.
    "Published every day," Mrs. Burns shot back
without batting an eye. "The obituary columns, Grace. Make it your daily
Bible reading."
    "You are serious."
    "Dead."
    Grace, for the moment forgetting her situation, considered
the irony implicit in the word.
    "Are you saying that I should attend these
funerals?"
    "Consider it research."
    "And then?"
    "Assess the situation. Be sure there is money there.
Survey the mourners. Evaluate their wealth and lifestyle. If possible, check
beforehand. See where they come from. Look at their houses. Make a careful
evaluation. Don't make the mistake of choosing a target with anything less than
big money. Keep your eye on the ball, then find a way to make contact."
    "But why a recent widower?" Grace asked, feeling
foolish. The idea seemed preposterous, ghoulish. Here she was in the midst of a
personal disaster and she was listening to what seemed like nonsense. Worse,
she was asking questions.
    "With a long marriage," Mrs. Burns said,
expanding on the idea. "Preferably a first wife."
    "Why a first wife?"
    "Because men in a long marriage are more accustomed to
the ministrations of women, Grace. Like horses, they have been broken,
domesticated."
    Is she playing with me? Grace thought. Despite her misgivings, Grace found herself bizarrely
interested, as if the strange idea might divert her mind from this train wreck.
    "Are there any other considerations?" Grace
asked, thinking: She wants to pull my chain. I'll pull hers. "Is
there an age requirement?"
    "I'd put a cap of seventy-five