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

slightly away from each other. Alan held Marsha’s right hand in his left, and patted it absently while he apparently pondered deep thoughts. That’s no way to console a girlfriend or to reassure her that the person in the casket wasn’t your real love, I thought. I gave their living arrangements another two months, at best, before Marsha moved out. They both wore black business suits and white shirts. Obviously, attending the funeral service was only an interruption to the corporate day.

I started down a side aisle, planning to speak to them, when the Dunwoodies entered the church, Bobbie Russell ambling behind them. Jane wore a gray pinstriped coatdress and black pumps, and carried a black bag over her arm à la Queen Elizabeth. John, dressed in a man’s all-purpose navy suit, white shirt and deep maroon tie, supported her elbow. They each dipped their fingers in holy water and crossed themselves, and as they genuflected and seated themselves on the Joseph (left) side, I noted the lacy black chapel veil on Jane’s head. A little round doily, it was a reminder of the time when women and girls were required to cover their heads in church. Nowadays, it was all but extinct in the U.S. Leave it to Jane to maintain the old tradition. John lowered the kneeler and they sank forward in prayer, Jane covering her face with her hands. John sat back down after only a few seconds, but Jane continued in what seemed like fervent prayer. Neither of them approached Mrs. Morano.

Bobbie stood in the narthex, or foyer, of the church, his gaze and his head moving up and down as he surveyed the altars, statues, carved wooden confessionals, lit candles, and other minutiae that constitute a proper Roman Catholic setting. I quietly walked to the back and greeted him.

“Hi, Bobbie. Good to see you.”

He put an arm around my shoulders and gave me a little squeeze. “You, too, Angie.” Then he shook his well-coiffed head. “This kind of thing gives me the creeps.”

“What? Funerals, or churches?”

“Both.”

I nodded in semi-agreement. My stomach made a small rumbling noise. “Excuse me,” I said as I patted myself slightly. “I’m surprised that Jane closed the office and brought you along.”

“She insisted. Said it was a mark of respect for a fallen comrade.” His eyes twinkled when he added, “I got quite a lecture when I asked her if she meant ‘fallen’ in the theological or the martial sense.”

“You bad man!” I whispered and gave his arm a little punch.

“Who’s the fellow looking daggers at me?” he asked, pointing with his chin towards the last pews.

“Must be Detective Wukowski. He’s always scowling.”

“Seems personal, Angie. You sure he doesn’t have a thing for you?”

“A ‘love thing’? I hardly think so.” Of course, I had to explain the phrase, and we both had a hard time controlling the giggles. Jane Dunwoodie glared at us from her pew, stiff with disapproval.

“Guess I’d better find a seat and settle down,” Bobbie told me. “Join me?”

“Can’t,” I said. “I’m actually on duty.”

“Ahhh. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.” He headed up the center aisle and sat in the pew behind Jane and John, the very picture of good-looking young American manhood.

“Angie, I ain’t late, am I? I had to park all the way over by the liberry.” Mrs. Lembke bustled in, dressed all in black and with a small black hat, festooned with black sequins, bobbing on her gray head.

“No, you’re not late, Mrs. Lembke. People are still extending their condolences, but I think it’s time for the Mass to start.”

“Doggone shame for someone to die so young,” she said with a shake of her head, causing the black sequins to shimmer and send little showers of reflected light on her face and mighty bosom. “Let’s get a pew, my ankles are awful swollen today.”

“Which side do you prefer?”

“Mary,” she said, and moved forward to sit directly behind Mrs. Morano.

“I think this pew is reserved for family,” I told her as I leaned in. “I’m going to sit further back.”

“Nah, there ain’t no more. Look around.” She surveyed the church. “This is it. Elisa’s mother’ll feel better with someone close behind her. You go ahead.”

I nodded and sat about halfway back, behind the others, with the exception of the police. It gave me a good vantage point for observation.

A single solemnly tolling bell marked the start of the services. The priest, dressed in black cope over his white robe, proceeded to the back of the church to meet the pallbearers and coffin. He sprinkled it with holy water, intoning, “Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee, O Lord: Lord hear my voice.”

Mrs. Morano started to sniffle as the pallbearers carried the coffin into the sanctuary, stopping just before they reached the steps to the altar. There, they set it in position, walked around to the side aisle, and sat with Mrs. Morano. Apparently, Mrs. Lembke was right. There was no other family present.

The coffin was a beautiful cherry wood, closed, and covered with a blanket of white roses. Mrs. Lembke glanced over her shoulder at me, eyes wide. Mentally, I toted up the dollars. How did Mrs. Morano come by that much cash?

The Mass proceeded, its ritual soothing, allowing me to think and observe. Marsha seemed focused on the readings and prayers, unaware of Alan. Mrs. Lembke’s head bobbed in agreement with the words of Paul, “For the Lord himself will come down from heaven, with a loud command, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet call of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first,” sending little sparkles around the pews.

The pallbearers, all young men, probably former MIAD friends, were stoic. Jane Dunwoodie wept several times, almost in concert with Mrs. Morano, and I felt sure that she was remembering her own daughter’s burial. John handed her a clean hankie from the breast pocket of his suit, put his arm around her and