Deadline for Lenny Stern by Peter Marabell (beautiful books to read TXT) 📕

What do you mean?” Tina said, startled by Henri’s comment.

We had arrived at Transfiguration Episcopal Church twenty minutes before Kate Hubbell’s memorial service. By church standards, Transfiguration was a new parish, founded in the 1950s. It was not until the late 1960s that services were held in the new, contemporary building tucked in the woods near Burt Lake State Park. With tall, peaked roof lines, slender windows, and a bell tower above a covered walkway, it blended comfortably with its surroundings.

“The black SUV, by the trees,” Henri said. “Little obvious just sitting there.”

“It’s Jimmy Erwin,” I said.

“Who’s Jimmy Erwin?” Tina said.

I recounted my time with Erwin at Palette Bistro.

“Is that right?” Henri said. “And that’s why we have Joey DeMio’s gunman here this morning?”

“Don Joey’s worried about being blamed for a crime?” Lenny said. “That’s one for the books. You think it’s bullshit?”

“Can’t be sure,” I said, “but I’ll cut Joey some slack on this one. If he has no stake in Lenny’s saga of corruption, he has every reason to not want Kate’s murder tied to him.”

“So Erwin’s going to be with us for a while then,” Henri said.

“Seems that way,” I said.

“I have to find the priest before the service starts,” Lenny said, opening the rear door. “Meet you inside.”

We exited Henri’s SUV as a white Chrysler 300 pulled in behind us. The doors opened and out stepped Maury Weston and Kate’s boss, Charles Bigelow from Chicago.

We said our hellos as Bigelow greeted Tina with a comforting hug. She cried softly into his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she said to no one in particular, and he patted her back.

“When did you get in?” Lenny asked Bigelow.

“Flew up this morning. Maury filled me in over breakfast.”

“I asked Charles if he thought the book tour should continue,” Weston said.

Lenny stared at Weston, then Bigelow. “Seriously? You might cancel?”

Bigelow put his hands out in a gesture implying things ought to be taken easily. He’d come a long way from the arrogant, insufferable man I first met in Weston’s office. The pain of death, the fear of attack, has a way of changing people.

“We’re just talking about it,” Bigelow said. “Nothing’s been decided, but we need to discuss it.”

“I’m against it,” Lenny said. “Lunch at the Iroquois … it’s the last stop.”

“Except the wrap-up in Chicago,” Bigelow said.

“You’ve got your own security people in Chicago. That one’s all VIPs, Charles. You don’t want to quit on them, do you?”

“I don’t want to quit the Iroquois either, Lenny, but we’re still going to discuss it after the funeral.”

“Well, you goddamn better make up your mind, Charles. Mackinac’s on for tomorrow, I plan to go.”

Lenny spun around. “Have to find the priest,” he said, and walked quickly away from us.

“He’s right, Charles,” Tina said. “We can’t quit on Mackinac Island, or Chicago. The book’s still going to come out, isn’t it?”

Bigelow nodded. “Of course.”

The parking lot was more than half full of cars, trucks, and SUVs. Some people were dressed in business wear, others in clothes more suited to a day off, but variety of attire was the norm for northern Michigan gatherings.

The church bell echoed in the woods. “It’s almost time,” Tina said. We joined the other mourners and entered the church. People ambled down the red carpet on the center aisle and fanned out into dark wooden pews. Charles led our little group into a pew a few rows back from the altar. Lenny rejoined us and took the outside seat. Henri remained near the door, off to one side.

Piano music, hymns probably, softly filled the air. A small table sat in the middle of the aisle, in front of the altar. On it was a sky-blue ceramic jar. Kate Hubbell’s ashes.

Tina leaned in close to my ear. “The first row, other side on the end. That’s Kate’s sister.” I only glimpsed Lois Hubbell’s curly black hair through several rows of mourners.

I turned toward the back of the church. The pews were about half full. Alone, in the last row, sat Jimmy Erwin, looking somber, arms folded across his chest.

A door opened to one side of the altar as I turned around. The music faded away. The priest, who I assumed to be the rector of Transfiguration, walked slowly forward and welcomed everyone to the service.

He opened a prayer book. “I am the resurrection and I am life …”

The quiet in the church was interrupted only by the occasional sniffle or cough, and people shifting around in their seats.

“Comfort us in our sorrows at the death of our sister …”

It was clear that the priest hadn’t known Kate, but he cared enough to personalize his remarks.

Lois Hubbell walked slowly to the front. She spoke of growing up with her sister in Indiana, of leaving home for different colleges, of Kate’s love of writing.

After Lois sat down, Lenny Stern left the pew and went to the altar. He pulled a few sheets of notepaper from his inside jacket pocket and flattened them on the lectern. Lenny looked out over the pews and ran a hand over his hairless head. The mourners watched him and waited, but they were restless, out of sadness or, perhaps, needing to return to work.

Lenny cleared his throat.

“Kate was too young to die.”

He began as he began his columns: sharp, precise, direct. He had our attention now. He grabbed us by the neck and didn’t let go for fifteen minutes as he talked about Kate — the woman, the friend, the professional.

“I’ll miss her. We’ll all miss her.” Lenny rolled up his notes and returned to his seat.

Following the post-communion prayer, the pianist played soft, peaceful music that filled the church.

“Let us go forth …” the priest said, and the service was over.

By the time I stood, neither Henri nor Jimmy Erwin was anywhere in sight. We joined the other folks and moved out of the church. Some people gathered in groups of three or four under the shade of the trees, talking, sometimes laughing. A few lit cigarettes.

Henri had created