Angelina Bonaparte Mysteries Box Set Nanci Rathbun (i love reading books txt) 📖

I stood before the coffin, remembering the day I found Dragana’s body. I thought of John Donne’s poem, Death Be Not Proud, which ends with this assurance:

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!

I prayed that it was so. Then Bobbie and I returned to the pew.

Footsteps sounded at the back of the church and five women with covered heads entered together, bowed in front of the altar, and sat in the second pew. Bram, Spider and Mad Man Malone were in the last pew on the left side. On the right side, three unknown men also occupied the final pew. Father Matthieu must have recruited some pallbearers from the congregation.

About five minutes before the service was set to begin, a woman in a UPS uniform came in and greeted Josif. The church was so empty and silent that I could hear her speak. “I’m afraid I can’t stay,” she told him, “but I wanted you to know that Dragana was one of my favorite regulars. She always had something fresh-baked to offer me when I stopped at the law offices.”

He smiled. “My Dragana, she very good cook.”

The woman moved forward to hug Josif, but he blocked her by turning sideways and extended his arm for a handshake.

After she left, an older couple and a young mother with a preschool girl approached Josif. I heard “good neighbor” and “Stephie loved her cookies.” I hoped they would stay, that there would be someone here who actually knew and missed Dragana, that it wouldn’t just be Josif who mourned her. The neighbors sat in the third pew, behind the church ladies and in front of Bobbie and me. Thank you, Lord.

Nineteen people to remember and celebrate a life. Probably only six knew Dragana. Deep sadness settled on my heart. No one should leave this life with so little sorrow, so few to remember. If Petrovitch was indeed responsible, I would find him.

A small bell rang and Josif seated himself, alone, in the front pew. Father Matthieu entered the chancel, bowed toward the altar and turned to the gathering. “Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal, have mercy on us,” he intoned three times. There were prayers, chanted hymns and a litany, in which the congregation and the priest alternated reading lines from the bulletin. We recited the Lord’s Prayer together and Father Matthieu ended the service with “May your memory be eternal, dear sister, worthy of blessedness and everlasting memory.” As we responded with “Amen,” I saw Josif surreptitiously wipe his eyes with a white handkerchief and return it to the breast pocket of his suit coat. One of the church women leaned forward and patted his shoulder. He remained ramrod straight.

Father Matthieu invited everyone present to stay for a luncheon and motioned the pallbearers forward. The six men approached the casket. Bram and Spider rotated it on its rolling bier so that it faced down the central aisle of the church. The pallbearers took hold of the casket handles and lifted it, while Father Matthieu waited in the aisle. Then he turned and led the way out of the church, with Josif following the coffin and the rest of us falling in behind. The hearse waited outside. Once the pallbearers slid the coffin inside, we trooped back into the church and assembled in the basement for food. As I surmised, the five ladies with headscarves were the food servers.

There was none of the usual camaraderie of a funeral meal. No stories, no laughter as someone recounted something the deceased had done, no celebration of a life well lived, only a prayer before the meal and desultory conversation as we ate. I tried to engage Josif, but he didn’t respond. Wukowski and Iggy were not at the table. I was sure the meal was delicious, but the only thing I tasted was the coffee, strong, hot and sweet.

Toward the end of the meal, I asked Father Matthieu about the cemetery. Bram picked up on the fact that Bobbie and I intended to be there and dipped his chin slightly.

The funeral director came into the room and handed out flyers to those who would be at the graveside service. The burial site was fifty miles away, at the Most Holy Mother of God Monastery in Third Lake, Illinois. I didn’t want to spend the afternoon going back and forth to the cemetery, but I felt cornered, having already told Josif I’d be there.

Would Bram drive us and blow his cover as a member of the congregation? I needn’t have worried. When Bobbie helped me on with my coat, I found a set of keys in the right pocket. “Are you okay with this trip, Bobbie?”

“Sure,” he said. “It’s all experience, right?”

I handed the car keys to Bobbie. “Bram left these in my coat. Would you mind driving?”

“That Bram’s something,” he whispered in my ear as he pocketed the keys.

The funeral director made a brief announcement to the “bereaved” concerning directions and explained that there wouldn’t be a car procession, because we’d need to take I-94 to get to the monastery. It was twelve-thirty. We were told that the drive should take about an hour and we would meet at the site at two o’clock.

Josif’s neighbors said their good-byes in the church hall, with appropriate expressions of sorrow and requests that Josif should let them know if he needed anything. The members of the congregation stayed behind to clean up the kitchen and fellowship area. Father Matthieu told us that he would see to the sanctuary and be along in time for the graveside service. That left Bobbie and me, with Josif and the funeral director in the hearse. I had no idea where Wukowski and Iggy would be, nor did I spot Bram’s security team, but I trusted that they were close by.

Bobbie and I exited the church and made our way to the