Lie of the Needle(18)
Just when I was toying with the idea of making a complete fool of myself, the cantor chanted the memorial prayer in a plaintive voice, and mercifully, the ceremony was over.
This had to be the quickest funeral I’d ever attended.
As soon as the casket was carried out and the family left the church, I jumped to my feet. Even though the worst of my panic attack was behind me, I still wanted to get the heck out of Dodge. Ignoring the frowns of those who rightfully thought I should wait my turn until each pew emptied in order, I hurried toward the exit, alternating between apologies and pushing past bodies. Just the act of standing up and moving was something to be thankful for.
The synagogue was an attractive building, with a preschool and religious school attached. Outside were tree-lined walkways and places to sit, and the bracing cold was a welcome respite from the stuffy interior. I sank onto a concrete bench to wait for Joe, wiping my clammy forehead and sucking in large gulps of frigid air.
He found me a few minutes later, and we joined the line of cars heading for the cemetery.
At the gravesite, I stayed at the back of the crowd. I wasn’t about to make the mistake of being trapped in that mass of humanity again. There were several chairs placed before the grave, but the majority of people were standing.
Serrano materialized at my side, wearing a black suit and gray overcoat.
“Everything okay, Daisy?” he said quietly.
Same comment as Eleanor. My face must mirror every thought in my brain.
Men were normally not detail-oriented, but Serrano had eyes like telephoto lenses, and right now he was zooming in for a close-up.
“Fine,” I answered, wishing I could blurt out all my anxieties and suspicions. But what if I was wrong? Did I really need to heap more suffering on this day?
“I almost didn’t recognize you with your clothes on, Detective,” I said, hoping to distract him with a joke.
A hint of a smile played around his firm mouth, but we fell silent as there was another reading, another psalm, and a recitation of an ancient prayer in Hebrew.
Too soon, I watched as the coffin holding the body of Stanley Bornstein was lowered into the ground. My eyes stung as Ruth tossed a shovelful of dirt on top of the coffin and placed the spade back in the earth.
The announcement had been made earlier that shivah would be held back at the Bornsteins’. When we arrived, the front door was standing open and there was a table with a pitcher of water and towels for mourners to wash their hands before entering the house.
Martha and Eleanor caught up to us, and we all walked in together. Martha had brought a cheesecake, I carried a dried fruit and nut platter, and Eleanor had a box of dark chocolates under her arm.
Inside, every mirror was covered now, and tall candles burned on every tabletop. There were so many people crowded around Ruth in the living room, I suggested we head for the kitchen first with our food offerings.
Dottie’s daughter, Kathleen, seemed to be in charge in the kitchen, bossing everyone around and organizing the care and feeding of the guests. She commandeered Joe to fetch more cases of water from her van, and Martha, Eleanor, and I made ourselves useful by bringing platters to the dining room and unwrapping them.
“It’s really a blessing he’s gone, you know,” one woman near me whispered to another as they helped themselves to large quantities of smoked salmon.
“Oh, yes, can I tell you? Poor Ruth was at the very end of her rope,” murmured her friend. “I don’t know how much longer she could have coped.”
I frowned as I stared at the array of bagels, hard-boiled eggs, tuna salad, cookies, and cakes galore. How desperate was Ruth to be free of her demanding and frustrating patient?