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

“Why not?” He handed me a card and locked the shop door behind me.

I headed for home, to shower, change and attend Elisa’s funeral.

Chapter 21

A funeral is not death, any more than baptism is birth or marriage union. All three are the clumsy devices, coming now too late, now too early, by which Society would register the quick motions of man.

—E.M. Forster

It used to be that only dark colors were considered appropriate for funeral wear. Now, anything goes. I’ve seen mourners exiting church in bright yellow dresses, or tee shirts and jeans. Frankly, I don’t care much about what colors people wear, but respect for the solemnity of the occasion should warrant wearing a nice set of clothes. If the best you own is jeans, I guess that’s okay.

I showered and donned a plain gray linen-blend shift and matching short-sleeved jacket. Black pumps and purse completed my rather restrained look, but I tucked a hand-painted scarf, all dreamy blues and greens, into my bag. Later, I thought, I could remove the jacket, tie the scarf around my neck, and go about my business, not looking like I’d just attended a funeral.

The service was slated for eleven at the Church of the Gesu. Known locally simply as Gesu, the 1890s French Gothic stone structure sits in the midst of the Marquette University campus on Wisconsin Avenue. Parking is fierce there, so I slid the Miata into a paid lot and walked five blocks to the church. The day was fine, and during the short stroll, I tried to reassure myself that it would be years before people would be walking to my funeral. Of course, Elisa’s age denied the security of that belief.

Gesu’s twin spires and huge rose window are reminiscent of Chartres. It boasts both an upper and lower church. The upper church is the more formal, with tall vaulted ceilings, stained glass windows and booming organ. It’s usually only open on Sundays and Holy Days. The lower church is where daily Masses are celebrated and confessions are heard. I attended daily Mass here as a Catholic schoolgirl at the now-defunct Gesu Grade School. Back then, the lower church seemed big to me. Now, the low ceiling and lack of outside light made it seem dark and small. A slight sense of unease rumbled in my tummy. I hoped I wouldn’t disgrace myself with stomach borborygmi during a silent part of the proceedings.

As I entered the lower sanctuary, I automatically dipped the first two fingers of my right hand into the holy water font and crossed myself, then stopped abruptly. Does one ever really escape childhood’s religious training?

Mrs. Morano had evidently opted out of the traditional parish vigil with its rosary for the deceased. I signed the guest book at the back of the church, took a bulletin and holy card with Elisa’s picture on it, and moved into the main aisle of the church, its old wooden pews flanking me on both sides. An informal receiving line had formed up front, with Mrs. Morano greeting mourners and accepting their condolences.

As I slowly walked forward, the smells of incense, burning candles, and altar flowers sparked my memories of lining up with my classmates, boys on the left and girls on the right, hands folded and eyes downcast, to receive communion. In front of the first row of pews was a bank of candles, which one could light in prayer. One weekday morning, Lena Martin’s waist-length brown hair caught on fire as she piously waited and prayed in front of the candles. Sister Mary Benedicta, a fat little nun, shrieked as she ran up to us, shouting, “Fire, fire,” and beating at poor Lena, who had no idea of the peril she was in. After that, the candles were moved to the sides of the church. It was my fondest memory of Catholic Mass, and I smiled as I recalled Lena trying to escape Sister’s hands and whispering (for we never spoke out loud in church) “S’ter, I didn’t do anything!”

Then I was next in line, murmuring words of sympathy to Mrs. Morano, holding her right hand between both of mine. “I didn’t want my attending to upset you, but Detective Wukowski assured me that it would be all right.”

She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “I’m glad that you could come. Elisa had so many friends. Just look at all the beautiful flowers.” She gestured to several small arrangements on the chancel steps, and one extremely large and lovely bouquet of lilies.

Did she think I was a friend of Elisa’s, or was she just mouthing the words that the bereaved seem to use? The departed (never ‘dead one’) is always a person of many friends, someone who cared about people, someone universally loved. I just nodded, and moved away to examine the funeral flowers. A small green plant from Mrs. Lembke. A bouquet of white roses and pink carnations with a card signed, “In memory of our friendship, Marsha Cantwell.” No Alan. A standing spray of multi-colored flowers with a “Love, Richard” card. A vase of fresh daisies, cheerful in the dark church, from The Belloni Family. But the huge arrangement of lilies took pride of place, with a card signed, “Death leaves a heartache no one can heal; Love leaves a memory no one can steal—The Dunwoodie Agency.” What a lovely remembrance for her mother, I thought. Then I turned back and surveyed the church.

Detectives Ignowski and Wukowski sat in the back, on the Mary (right) side of the church. I kept my arm at my side, but waggled my fingers in acknowledgement of their presence. Iggy nodded, Wukowski made no response, but it didn’t bother me. They probably didn’t want anyone to know they were back there.

Marsha Cantwell and Alan McGuire sat about ten pews from the front, also on the Mary side. Their knees were angled towards each other, but their bodies were turned