Lie of the Needle(51)

            I couldn’t think of an appropriate explanation. I felt as though I was ten years old, not fifty-eight. What the heck was the matter with me? “Sorry, Father. It’s not that, it’s just . . .” Suddenly I realized I was sitting on a gravestone, too, and I jumped to my feet. “I’m so sorry.” Not only had I left the service prematurely, I was laughing like a fool and being disrespectful of the dead.

            “It’s all right. When Patrick Carney was alive, he never minded a beautiful woman sitting on his lap, especially one in such a good humor. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind now.”

            I sighed. “Oh, Father, there’s just been so much going on lately, what with Stanley dying and then the murder of Alex Roos, and now I’m worried sick about Cyril. I’m a little emotional. I guess there’s a fine line between laughter and hysteria.”

            “Everyone needs to let the steam out of the pressure cooker now and again.” He smiled gently at me. “Good to see you, Daisy.”

            “You too.”

            As he turned to leave, I called out, “Father? Could I ask you something?”

            He raised an eyebrow in question.

            “Do you think it’s possible to feel as though someone is still alive? Even though you don’t know for sure?”

            Again, that gentle smile. “Our loved ones always live in our hearts and in our memories.”

            I stared up at him, his figure backlit by the colorless sky. Were the souls of Stanley Bornstein and Alex Roos restlessly roaming this earth, or were they at peace?

            After he left, I kept Patrick Carney company for a few moments longer while I watched a red cardinal flit across the graveyard.





Chapter Nine




                         “I could really go for some gingerbread, or maybe a banana pecan muffin.” Eleanor gave Martha a gentle poke with her bony elbow. Usually a special request for one of Martha’s baked goods was an instant call to action.

            I’d managed to catch the end of the sermon, thankfully, and now we were milling around at the coffee social.

            “I couldn’t possibly think of food at a time like this. I’m distraught that Cyril wasn’t even mentioned in that service.” Martha’s mouth drooped. “Maybe if someone would find my soul mate, I might be more inclined to cook. Maybe if I could get some help from this village instead of being sabotaged or ridiculed at every turn.”

            My heart was breaking, and I hugged her as tightly as I could. “Don’t lose hope, Martha.”

            “I can’t. It’s all I’ve got.” She dabbed at the corners of her sore eyes.

            “Look, Cyril is a Yorkshireman, and as stubborn and ornery as they come. If anyone can survive and land on their feet, it’s him.”

            “Yep. Old birds are the toughest!” Eleanor said, and then she lowered her voice to a murmur. “Speaking of which, these dry-as-dust brownies of Sally McIntire’s are definitely for the birds.”

            At that moment, there was a commotion near the doorway and I looked up to see the unfortunate Sally being led out of the room by her husband, who seemed to have a tight grip on her arm.

            Dottie Brown came over. “Did you see how red her eyes were? Apparently she’s been crying for days, grieving over that dead photographer.” After Martha, Dottie was the town’s second most reliable resource for sizzling gossip.

            It was true that Sally had hung around on the set every day, giggling and making eyes at Roos.

            Dottie lowered her voice. “And on the afternoon of the Bornstein funeral, Jim McIntire was scouring the town for his wife, who was not where she was supposed to be.”