Mary sat with Bennie and Judy behind Frank’s grieving wife and sons, in one of the glistening wooden pews toward the front of the parish church. Mary’s parents clutched soggy Kleenexes, and the rest of the weepy circolo filled her pew and the three pews behind her. The church was dark because the sun wasn’t bright enough to penetrate the stained glass depictions of the Stations of the Cross, in jewel tones of merlot and rich midnight blue. Refrigerated flowers and everybody’s best perfume sweetened the air.
Mary raised her eyes to the altar, where the white-robed priest was holding the host over his head, reciting the familiar prayer. She responded with the rest of the congregation, as she had her entire life, but her thoughts kept straying to work. She had ten active cases piled on her desk and clients shaking their fists at her. She had briefs to file and motions to write. She had depositions to take and defend; cases to settle or try, the day-to-day business of being a trial lawyer. Part of her missed it, which came as a surprise, even to her. Amadeo had taught her that, brought her that; she had never felt happy with her choice of profession before this case. She sent him a silent prayer of thanks.
She bowed her head to the sound of sobs and sniffling, the cadence of praying and chanting, and next an unwelcome sound. The intrusion of a cell phone, set on generic ring. Briing. Briinnnggg. It rang startlingly close to Mary, and she glanced over at Bennie, who remained impassive. Briiinnngg. Everyone began looking around the pews; the cell phone Nazis on alert. Her mother heard the ring, swiveling her puffy pink-gray hair, but her father remained oblivious, since he never wore his hearing aid in church. Brriinngg. Then Mary realized the ring was coming from her own purse.
She opened her bag, grabbed her cell, flipped it open, and pressed Power, instantly turning it off. Her mother frowned. Her father smiled. Bennie eyed her coolly, then looked away. Mary felt redness warm her aching cheek. She hadn’t recognized the caller’s number on the glowing blue display, but the call had been from a 215 area code, local to Philly. Probably one of the clients she’d been avoiding. She wished her cell number wasn’t on her damn business cards.
Mourners were rising to receive Holy Communion, and with a crowd this size it would take twenty minutes at least, so Mary got up on autopilot, helped her mother to her orthopedic shoes, and the DiNunzios excused their way out of the pew to join the line, hands folded and heads bowed. She tried to focus again on her work, but all she could think about was Amadeo, Saracone, and Frank, and the emotion she felt most fully was grief. Grief for all three of them, oddly. Sorrow that they had all gone. Her heart weighed in her chest as she walked to the altar, hearing people sniffling, the occasional smoker’s cough, and the regular clack clack clack of her pumps on the hard marble floor. And when she reached the altar and it was her turn to kneel, the Communion wafer tasted bitter and her eyes were wet. Mary was in mourning. For everything.
After the funeral mass, crowds thronged outside on the granite steps of the church, covering the pavement and spilling off the curb and onto a busy Sixteenth Street. Cars couldn’t afford to be heedless of the crowd letting out and gave the foot traffic wide berth. Men talked in groups at the curb, lighting up cigarettes and puffing cigars, blowing cones of gray smoke into the gray clouds, where it was carried off and disappeared. Women chattered in small groups, hugging, kissing, and dab-bing their tears from the side, so as not to smear their mascara. The circolo formed a large group of its own, swarming around Mary, thanking her, kissing her, and even pinching her. With love.
“Mary, you’re such a good lawyer! So good to us! So hard, you worked!” they all said, and Mary’s mother nodded, her father beamed, and Mary accepted the congratulations, feeling like a complete fraud. She hadn’t recovered even a dime of Amadeo’s estate and she hadn’t vindicated his murder. She hadn’t even told any of them that he had been murdered, though in truth, they seemed to have forgotten altogether about Amadeo. It was as if Frank Cavuto had been Mary’s mentor, and with his death, she had succeeded him in being the circolo’s favorite lawyer. A prominent woman in the community, Bernadette Gibboni, grabbed her hand with glistening eyes, and said, “Poor Frank, he loved you so! He thought the world of you! He told us, if anybody can get justice, it’s Mary DiNunzio!”
“Mary! Mary! Itsa sin, that Frank’s gone!” yelled Joe Grassi, from the back. “He woulda been so proud, to see what you accomplished. He tol’ me last week, you been workin’ for no pay!”
“No, wait, everybody!” Mary put up a hand. Enough was enough. “It was my boss who paid, Bennie Rosato. Give her the credit!” She pointed to the edge of the throng, where Bennie had been collared by a circolo member who wanted to franchise his chain of nail parlors. “Pop, take Joe over, to thank Bennie!” Her father and the circolo changed direction as quickly as a school of guppies, leaving Mary and her mother standing face-to-face with Jim MacIntire, the reporter. He’d evidently been at the funeral, because he’d slapped a tie on his workshirt. It was a look Mary used to love.
“My God, you have lots of fans, Mare!” Mac said. “The circolo, is it called, they all want you to take over Frank Cavuto’s practice, now that he’s gone.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” Mary said, recoiling. He’s not even buried yet, you jerk.
“This must be your mother!” Mac boomed, and Mary was figuring out a way she could turn his doggedness to her advantage.
“Ma, meet Jim MacIntire. He’s a reporter, so don’t answer any of his questions.”
“Ah-ha!” Her mother sniffed, making no disguise of her instant dislike, which only confirmed Mary’s doubts. Her mother’s instincts about people were positively canine. She could take one whiff, and you were either sunk or made. German Shepherds came to her for advice.
“You must be so proud of your daughter!” Mac boomed again, sounding more the proud parent than Mary’s own proud parent, who gave her daughter’s arm a familiar squeeze, turned on her thick rubber heel, and without another word, walked off into the crowd. Mary tried not to laugh.
“Tough room,” Mac said. “Listen, I want to talk with you about Brandolini. I guess you heard that Giovanni Saracone died yesterday. If you’re going to ask me how I know, we have an obit section, and I saw the notice.”
Mary kept her middle finger to herself. She was so near church and all.
“Let’s talk, Mare. Like we did, that first time, in your office.” Mac’s tone softened, and she gathered it was his Love Voice. The one that made her check if he had a wedding ring on. Fool me once, fool me twice. Mac took a step closer. “I felt for you when I heard. Just as you started to find the only man who knew Brandolini, he died. Did you ever get to see Saracone?”
“Did you?”
Mac blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly what I said. You had the same information I did, you copied my research. You gonna tell me you didn’t go to the Saracones? Track him down like you did the director at the museum?”
“I didn’t say that I didn’t.”
“You didn’t say that you did, either.” Mary thought it was fun, turning the tables. “When did you go? Who did you see?”
“I went there yesterday afternoon and met Melania. Giovanni was too sick to see me.”
“Then you didn’t really learn he was dead from the obit.” Liar. “You knew he was on his deathbed way before any obit got called in.”
“I didn’t know for sure.”
“Bullshit. I don’t think Uncle Joey told you anything about me and Amadeo. I think somebody at Saracone’s did.” Mary wasn’t even sure she was right on the facts, which made accusing him even more fun. “I think you’re on Saracone’s payroll, and you’re using the fact you’re a reporter to find out what I know.”