Lie of the Needle(17)

            A couple of minutes later, there were so many mourners crammed in next to me that in spite of the fact it was early November, my heart started pounding and a thin film of sweat covered my forehead.

            Oh, no, not now.

            There were too many people, too close. Too late I wished that I’d sat at the end of the aisle.

            I concentrated on my breathing, fighting the panic. In. Out. In. Out.

            Many years ago, I’d tried to protect one of my students in a violent altercation and had barely survived. Sometimes when I felt cornered, the old fears and the panicked urge to flee came raging back.

            Eleanor glanced over at me and fanned me with her funeral program. I smiled faintly, turning my face toward the welcome brief gusts of air.

            Martha hurried down the aisle and forced her way into the end of the pew in front of us. Her freckled cheeks were pink, and she looked even more flustered than me, if that was possible. She rolled her eyes at us, obviously irritated, as she settled herself and took off her coat.

            “Where’s Cyril?” Eleanor muttered in my ear. “I can’t believe he wouldn’t come.”

            I nodded in agreement, my pulse settling down with something else to focus on. This wasn’t like him. Admittedly he didn’t know Ruth that well, but he certainly knew what was expected by his commander in chief.

            “Where’s Cyril?” I mouthed when Martha turned around.

            She shook her head and made the motion of dialing a telephone. “I’ve been calling and calling, but he never answered. Finally I said, Screw him, and came on my own,” she hissed.

            A couple of people glanced at us with forbidding expressions, and we subsided into silence.

            The rabbi stepped up to the pulpit, and I checked my watch. Four o’clock. Unlike many other ceremonies I’d attended, this one started exactly on time.

            As he started the reading of Psalm 23, my thoughts drifted to Stanley and then quickly sank back into the quagmire of doubt. Had the nurse with the attitude wanted to get rid of him? Or the doctor who’d visited earlier? Perhaps the physical therapist?

            But it didn’t make sense. It was in those people’s best interests to keep the goose that laid the golden eggs alive as long as possible. Now that he was gone, they were all out of a job.

            At the very least, had he been overmedicated? It could have been a simple mistake for the nurse to confuse those different medicines on the bedside table. Come to think of it, the only person I hadn’t spotted in the congregation was Jo Ellen.

            Oh, Daisy. Stop being so melodramatic. The poor man was just delusional. You’re reading way too much into it. I tried to concentrate on the eulogy and on my own memories of Stanley. His warmth, intelligence, and gentle humor.

            Suddenly I sucked in a ragged breath.

            Ruth had made a Very Big Deal about stating that Jo Ellen was the one to give him his meds. Is that why she brought me up to the house? So good old Daisy could be a witness? And later she could slip him something extra and, if there were any inconvenient questions, blame it on the nurse?

            Wild thoughts rampaged through my brain. Funerals should give the public the opportunity to speak, like at a wedding, when the person officiating asks if anyone has anything to say before the proceeding continues. I pictured the rabbi intoning, “Does anyone have any objection to this funeral, or any reason why this man should not be buried?” At which point I could jump up and say, “Yes, because I think he’s been murdered!”

            My stomach clutched into an aching knot. Did I owe it to Stanley to make sure justice was done? But what should I do?

            Maybe Ruth didn’t mean to kill him. Even if she’d been tempted to give him a hefty dose of sleeping pills so she could get a good night’s rest for once, could anyone really blame her?