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

pulled her close. I could hear little shushing sounds that he made to her. Bobbie sat, interested, as if at a play or concert.

Bobbie, Alan and I were the only ones present who did not receive communion. Even Iggy and Wukowski came forward. Interesting, I thought. If the killer is present, he or she must have already received absolution for the murder. I searched their faces, but saw no extraordinary emotion, only the downcast eyes and prayerfully folded hands that I expected.

As the Mass drew to a close, the priest walked twice around the casket, once to sprinkle it with holy water and once to pass incense over it. Then he prayed. “May the angels lead you into paradise: may the martyrs receive you at your coming, and lead you into the holy city, Jerusalem. May the choir of angels receive you, and with Lazarus, who once was poor, may you have everlasting rest." Shakespeare did it better in Hamlet.

The pallbearers filed out of the church with the coffin, followed by the priest and acolytes, Mrs. Morano, and the rest of us. The funeral directors efficiently loaded their cargo into the hearse, and circulated among us to find out who was planning to go to the gravesite. It seemed it would only be Mrs. Morano, the pallbearers and funeral home crew, and the police. What a sad ending to a sad morning. But it was noon, and the day was bright and sunny. That’s a consolation, I always think, when I see a funeral cortege pass by.

Iggy sidled over to me and asked, “Can you meet us for lunch? One o’clock. Ma’s.”

“I’m not sure that Wukowski and I will be welcome there,” I told him.

“How come?”

“Ask him,” I said. “Look, why don’t you come over to my condo? I’ll make some sandwiches and we can talk in privacy.” Then I turned to Mrs. Lembke. “Need a lift to your car?”

“Do I! My puppies are killin’ me.”

“I’m parked pretty close. It’ll just take a minute.” I walked quickly to my car, then drove back to pick her up. We talked about the funeral and what it must have cost. “Elisa had some money in an account. Maybe Mrs. Morano was able to use that. Or maybe Elisa had life insurance,” I speculated.

“Could be,” Mrs. Lembke nodded. Her black hat now rested on her ample thighs. “She was the kinda girl who would look out for herself that way. I’m glad for her mother’s sake. But didja see the eye shadow she was wearin’? To her own daughter’s funeral? I ask ya!”

“Gee, I didn’t notice. Anything else strike you as odd?”

“Just that woman across from me, the one with the chapel veil on.” She snorted. “If you ain’t gonna wear a proper hat, don’t wear none at all, I say.”

“Right,” I agreed. “Did you see her do something else strange?”

“Well, ya know when they recite the Dies Irae—I always think it’s kinda mean to carry on at a funeral about how ‘the doomed no more can flee from the fires of misery.’ At least in the old days, when it was in Latin, ya didn’t know all the words. Well, anyways, when the priest started in, she really turned on the waterworks. I thought, lady, didja know Elisa that good, to be that worried about her sins and all?”

“I noticed the crying, too, but I think it’s because her little girl died when she was only five years old, and Mrs. Morano’s pain got to her. I’ll tell you this, if any of my children died before me, I’d never be able to attend a funeral again.”

“You’re right. I din’t know about that. It just goes to show ya.”

We were at the lot where her car was parked. I got out and came around the passenger side to help her out and promised to call her when I had any news to share. As I waited for her to start her car and leave the lot, I thought of the poem by Ernest Dowson, who, like Elisa Morano, died young, at the age of thirty-two.

They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,

Love and desire and hate:

I think they have no portion in us after

We pass the gate.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:

Out of a misty dream

Our path emerges for a while, then closes

Within a dream.

Chapter 22

Success is a consequence and must not be a goal.

—Gustave Flaubert

As I unlocked the door to the condo, I heard the vacuum cleaner whooshing in the back bedroom. Odd that Lela would be here on a Wednesday, I thought. She generally cleans at the end of the week, although we keep it flexible to accommodate her acting engagements. I put my purse in the hall closet and walked into the master suite, where Lela was dancing while pushing the upright vacuum, earphones in place, singing along to Marvin Gaye’s Sexual Healing. I walked around the bed, where I’d be in her line of vision. She switched off the vacuum, pressed a button on her MP3 player and tugged the little plugs from her ears.

“Angie, I didn’t expect to see you today. I hope it’s okay I came in to clean, I know I was just here on Saturday and it’s only Wednesday, but you don’t have to pay me full price. I just wanted to get you done because—” she jumped up and down, and then grabbed me in a bear hug, lifting my feet off the floor— “I got a part in the Rep’s new production.” She stopped, gazing straight at my face, waiting for my reaction.

“Omigod, Lela, that’s fantastic. Come into the kitchen and tell me all about it. I have to make sandwiches for a couple of police detectives, who are meeting me here at one.” I waved her to a stool at the kitchen counter while I made coffee and set out cold cuts, cheese and bread. “Now, tell me all.”

“Well, I got the call