“You know what we need?” said Lydia, watching me. “We need to have a memorial service or something for O’Connor. I mean, he hasn’t really been — I don’t know — put to rest.”
“Barbara wants to have an Irish wake. She wants to wait until Kenny is feeling better. I wonder if she’s even mentioned the idea to him.”
“What happens at a wake?”
“That’s the problem. We don’t really know except from hearsay and movies. But Barbara’s going to talk to my grandfather’s sister; Mary’s from the old country.”
“I’ll bet Kevin could help out.”
“You’re right. Kevin’s probably waiting to hear what we’re going to do.”
I thought of all the other friends of O’Connor, and felt a little better. For every Kenny, there were a hundred people like Kevin, who thought well of O’Connor and would not shun his memory.
“Ready to go?” Lydia asked. I felt bad about leaving so much food, so I asked to have the murg sag wrapped up to go.
When we got home, I was about to put the Styrofoam container into the refrigerator when Cody intercepted me, and I dished out some of the meal for him. Lydia sat on one of the barstools at the kitchen counter and listened to the answering machine. Her mother had called to invite her over to a cousin’s birthday party on Thursday. There was also a message from Frank. Lydia gave me a very meaningful look, although he had simply said, “It’s Frank — Sunday morning. Give me a call if you get a minute.”
Fortunately, Cody distracted her by having a sneezing fit after eating the murg sag.
I called Kevin, but he wasn’t home, and his machine wasn’t on. I tried Frank. He answered with the usual “Harriman.”
“Hello, Harriman,” I said.
“Hello, Kelly,” he said warmly. “Sorry about conking out so early last night.”
“It was kind of fun watching you sleep.”
Lydia, hearing only my side of the conversation, raised her eyebrows. I grabbed a section of the Sunday paper from the counter and swatted her.
“What was that?” Frank asked.
“There’s a fly in here.” Lydia stuck her tongue out at me.
“Do you have plans for the afternoon?”
“Nothing special. Are you going stir-crazy again?”
“You guessed it. Would you mind going out for a drive? I just need to get out of the house for a while.”
“I wouldn’t mind at all. Give me about an hour, okay?”
“Great.”
We hung up and I found myself being studied by Lydia.
“Okay, Irene. Give me all the details. What’s going on with you two?”
“You’ve got it all wrong, Lydia.”
“Oh, sure. ‘It was fun watching you sleep.’”
“Last night he fell asleep on the couch, with his head on my lap. We were both fully clothed. You’ll have to look elsewhere for your big romantic story.”
“Who says that’s not romantic?”
I was rescued from a reply by the ringing of the phone. I picked it up and said hello. A genteel, very controlled voice came over the line.
“Hello. May I please speak to Miss Irene Kelly?”
“This is she.”
“Miss Kelly, I am Alberta Owens, Elaine Owens’s mother. Detective Giocopazzi suggested that I give you a call in connection with my daughter’s murder.”
Rachel had come through for me.
“Thank you for calling me, Mrs. Owens. I appreciate it very much.”
“Detective Giocopazzi tells me that you were present when my daughter died, and helped to identify the person who killed her. I suppose I don’t need to tell you how anxious I am to be of help. Justice won’t bring Elaine back, but perhaps it will provide some comfort.”
I hesitated. “I suppose she told you that the man who killed your daughter is dead?”
“Yes, and knowing that the man who murdered my only child is dead is some relief. But why was she killed? Why did he make her suffer so much?”
Her voice caught for a moment on this last question. What could be worse than losing a child in such a way? Somehow, knowing how hard she was trying to be calm while talking to me made hearing this little catch all the more painful.
“Mrs. Owens, I know you’re aware that there is some possibility of a connection between your daughter’s death—”
“Her murder. Dying is natural. This was not.”
