Mistaken Identity

“Thanks,” Be

“Be

“I’m really-”

“Sorry,” Be

Mary filled Be

“Maybe,” Be

“I’m not surprised,” Judy said, and reiterated the details of what Ro

“No, we’re in high gear now. You have to get the paperwork done. Jury instructions, motions in limine, questions for voir dire. It all has to be done right away, and whatever has to be filed has to get filed.” Be

“Tonight is the viewing?” Mary asked. “We’d like to go.”

“Thanks, but neither of you can come. We’ve got a defense to stage.”

Judy frowned. “But we’d like to. We can work afterwards.”

“No.” Be

“Sure,” Judy said, mystified, and Mary nodded as Be

45

Fleur-de-lis of ersatz gilt flocked the wallpaper and the room was long and narrow, almost a coffin itself. Sound from another wake traveled through the thin walls and the cheap nap of the rug betrayed that it was indoor-outdoor carpeting. Covella’s Funeral Home wasn’t the first tier of Italian funeral homes, where the mob wakes were held, but Be

Be

Grady squeezed her hand, and Hattie sat on Be

Be

She didn’t bother to look for him and realized that she felt about him the way Co

Be

“Father Teobaldo is here,” said the funeral director, who materialized from nowhere. Behind him stood a slight Catholic priest, with a damp forehead, a long bony nose, and a face too gaunt for a young man.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Rosato,” he said, extending a slim hand and shaking hers. He eased into the seat beside Hattie, who introduced herself and shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you, too,” he said, and sounded to Be

“S’nice you took the time to come,” Hattie said, a hoarse lilt to her voice. She grew up in Georgia and like Grady, had an accent that surfaced when she was tired or upset. This evening she was both. “I know you didn’t know Missus Rosato. She wasn’t a well woman. She couldn’t get out to church.”

“That’s all right. I’m not here to judge her. God won’t judge her. He’ll welcome her.”

“I know he will, Father,” Hattie said, her voice sonorous. “Jesus loves all of us.”

Be

It was easier to look first around the casket, rather than at the casket itself. White wrought iron sconces flanked her mother’s coffin, their light insignificant. Tacky flower arrangements ringed the front: pink-sprayed chrysanthemums and paint-covered daisies wrenched into the shape of hearts, ba

She made herself look at the coffin and the vision wrenched her heart. A rose-colored light had been mounted inside the satin upholstery of the casket, bathing her mother’s face in a pink glow. Brownish foundation had been sponged onto her mother’s skin and her lips sealed in a matching pink lipstick. That bothered Be