She bent her head and said a prayer. The reception line shifted forward, and when Mary looked up, she spotted Trish and Mrs. Gambone, with Giulia and her husband behind them. She felt a pang for Giulia, betrayed by her husband and her best friend, a heartbreak double play. Trish walked with her head bent and her arm linked in her mother’s, apparently grief stricken in dark coats, but Mary couldn’t stop her doubts.
She hid her thoughts as Trish stepped forward to the casket and knelt down on the knee pad, with her mother hovering behind her. Every head in the room turned to the front, and all eyes focused on the scene. Trish rested a hand on the coffin, then bent down and kissed it. It was so convincing a portrayal that Mary almost wondered if it was real, and when Trish rose and turned away from the coffin, she wiped a tear from her eye, Exhibit A in the Grief Department.
Ritchie came forward and gave Trish a meaty hug and Mrs. Gambone hugged Mr. Po, and at the sight, the mourners nodded and murmured with approval. Mary had been to enough Italian funerals to recognize the big peace-making scene, though it usually took place between people who hadn’t spoken because of an ancient grudge, not people who kidnapped and tried to kill each other, like, last week. But then again, every opera was different.
Giulia and her husband Joe did the same thing, then Yolanda and Missy appeared and followed suit, and Mary wondered if there was such a thing as collective amnesia. In the aisle behind her, someone said “hey” and “what’s your problem, lady,” and she turned around to see an attractive couple bypassing the receiving line and hurrying up the aisle. The man was behind, but the woman stormed ahead, her russet hair flying and her face contorted with anger. It was Rosaria, Bobby’s sister, from Brick.
Mary should have expected her, but with all that had been going on had forgotten about her. The man with Rosaria, wearing an expensive silk tie, must have been her boyfriend, because he was trying to catch her arm as she charged forward. Her gaze fixed on the casket, then shifted to Mr. Po and Ritchie, who had just released Trish and Mrs. Gambone.
“You! You did this!” Rosaria called out, storming down the aisle toward the casket. Mourners gasped, heads wheeled around, and a dangerous wave rippled through the crowd, but Rosaria was oblivious, grief stricken, her eyes teary. “You’re responsible for this. You got my brother killed. You.”
“Whoa, Ro,” Ritchie said, putting up his palms, and a shocked Trish, the girls, and Joe edged back behind Mr. Po, who whirled around with an agility surprising in a man his age.
“Rosie, show some respect,” he said loudly.
“Respect for you?” Rosaria shouted back. Her boyfriend pulled her away, but she wouldn’t stop. “Why? You’re criminals, common criminals, both of you. You’re not good enough to know my brother, much less bury him.”
“Shut your mouth!” Ritchie yelled, and men collected behind him.
Mary found herself on her feet with the rest of the mourners, craning their necks.
“You were nothing compared to Bobby, and you know it,” Rosaria hollered. “You were always jealous of him. He was the star, not you. He was the one everybody loved, not you. That’s why you ruined him!”
“That’s enough outta you.” Ritchie gritted his teeth, and a short, elderly priest appeared up front, raising his arms and stepping between the Pos and Rosaria and her boyfriend.
“Please, no, stop,” the priest said, his voice quavering with age and alarm. “This isn’t the time or the place, not the time or the place.”
“Don’t tell me, Father.” Rosaria turned on him. “You don’t know these people. They’re sick, the both of ’em. You wanna know what he did to me, Father? My supposed father? Do I have to spell it out for you?”
“Rosaria, no!” her boyfriend shouted, finally grabbing her from behind and wrapping his arms around her, holding her fast while she writhed and struggled in his arms. Ritchie, Mr. Po, the priest and the men stood still, watching while she finally stopped fighting and dissolved into tears, collapsing in her boyfriend’s arms. He managed to get her back down the aisle, and she sobbed against him for support, tears running down her cheeks, letting herself be taken from the room.
Up front, Mr. Po spoke with the priest, and Ritchie huddled with his partners in crime. Mrs. Gambone, Trish, and the girls formed a fluttery circle, and the room returned slowly to normal, with the mourners talking among themselves and taking their seats. Mary sat down, her emotions in tumult, her thoughts confused. She was thinking about Ritchie and what Judy had said.
Maybe the easy answer was the right one.
Maybe a mobster had killed Bobby, and maybe the mobster was Ritchie. Mary remembered that day at the Po house, when she’d met him.
Boo.
CHAPTER FORTY
S unlight beamed into her bedroom, and Mary felt almost herself by Sunday morning, lounging in bed in her oversized Eagles T-shirt, enjoying the unaccustomed luxury of loafing. Newspapers made messy tents all over her comforter, and Meet the Press was on TV, all the politicians in gray suits, red ties, and flag lapel pins. She watched idly, thinking that Tim Russert was cute in an altar-boy kind of way, but that reminded her of Anthony, who still hadn’t called. She was too old-fashioned to call him. She looked over and checked the answering machine beside the bed, but nothing had started blinking since five minutes ago. She wasn’t ready for a relationship anyway.
But if he calls, I’m ready.
She sighed and told herself it was a relief. After all, she’d almost gotten back to her life, having spent last night catching up on her e-mail, answering her clients as if she were still an associate at Rosato. She’d called Amrita to check on Dhiren, and he was improving, and she’d even drafted a brief due next week. She hadn’t decided what to do about Bennie yet, but it had felt good to be back in business, dealing with roof leaks and slip-and-falls, and there had even been a ton of e-mail from her clients, congratulating her on finding Trish alive. She wondered if the other clients would come back, now that she had found Trish. Not that it gave her comfort, not completely. The whole time she’d worked, Trish had been in the back of her mind, and Bobby.
Mary picked up the front page and skimmed the article again. OTHER SHOE DROPS WITH BARBI MURDER read a sidebar, and the article went on about the history of the Mob in South Philly, with a list of so many Italian names it sounded like a menu. Mary hated the Mob stereotype because she knew that most Italian-Americans were smart, honest, and hardworking citizens, who kept her in business by slipping on wet sidewalks, crashing their bumpers, and winning the occasional contracts case. She scanned the other news articles, all on the Mob war, and pictured the crowd at Biannetti’s, excitedly comparing notes and trading gossip, murder as spectator sport.
She turned back to the front page, and the lead article reported that there were still no suspects in the Mancuso and Barbi murders. Another sidebar showed the blurry cell-phone photo of Trish and reported that the mobster’s “former live-in love” had returned to her family’s home and wasn’t returning reporters’ calls. There was no suggestion that Trish was suspected of his murder in any way. Brinkley wasn’t mentioned in any of the articles, and neither he nor the FBI must have contacted Trish or she would have called.
Mary watched Tim Russert and tried to think good thoughts. She was a defense lawyer, and the representation was over. Judy, the world’s best girlfriend, had been right. Bobby had been buried, and that chapter of her life closed. She had to pick up the pieces, and right now they were messier than all the newspaper sections. She wanted to feel better. She was so sick of being down on herself for being down on herself, for having no job and no boyfriend, and she felt lost and empty, betwixt and between.