“…as though she were my own mother,” Linda was saying, a quiver in her voice.

Willy, of course, had heard the remark and couldn’t help adding his own. “You rented that apartment less than a year ago, didn’t you?” he asked.

Without waiting for an answer, he took Alvirah’s arm and propelled her toward the kneeling bench.

In death as in life, Bessie Durkin looked to be in charge of the situation. Attired in her best print dress, wearing the narrow strand of faux pearls the judge had given her on their wedding day, her hair styled and combed, Bessie had the satisfied expression of someone who had successfully made a lifelong habit of getting other people to do things her way.

Later, when Alvirah and Willy were leaving, they said good-bye to Kate, promising to be at the funeral Mass at St. Clement’s and ride in the car with her to the cemetery.

“Sister Cordelia is coming too,” Kate told them. “Willy, I’ve been worried about her this week that you’ve been away. She’s been under so much strain. The city inspectors are giving her a terrible time about Home Base.”

“We expected as much,” Willy said. “I called today, but she was out and didn’t get back to me. I had expected to see her here tonight.”

Glancing across the room, Kate saw Linda Baker bearing down on them. She dropped her voice. “I asked Sister back to the house after the funeral,” she whispered. “I want you to come too, and Monsignor will be there.”

They said their good-nights, and because Willy said he had to get some fresh air just to get the overwhelming smell of flowers off him, they agreed to walk a ways before hailing a taxi.

“Did you notice how Linda Baker came running when she saw us talking to Kate?” Alvirah asked Willy as they strolled arm in arm toward Columbus Avenue.

“I sure did. I have to say there was something about that woman that bothered me. And now I’m worried about Cordelia too. She’s no spring chicken, and I think she’s bitten off more than she can chew by trying to mind those kids after school.”