American Nights by Gerrie Ferris Finger

Author:Gerrie Ferris Finger
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gale, Cengage Learning
Published: 2016-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY

You would think that a big-shot doctor like Cresley would have a funeral fit for a big-shot doctor. I didn’t see a notice that the mass and burial were a private affair, but you’d have thought it was. There was a scattering of folks dressed in black, sitting and standing beneath the tent set up in the old St. Michael Cemetery near Northside Drive. Most were women. There was one I pegged as Heidi Levine, a striking blond whose smoky eyes and vanilla skin played well with her black, lace hat. She stood at the back of the tent, a certain defiance in her bearing. Well-dressed matrons—of charitable pedigree and functions, perhaps—and young women I assumed were nurses, dabbed their eyes and looked sorrowfully at the two coffins sitting on straps tied to brass bars. Oddly, beneath the coffins the ground had not been cut into graves. Puzzled, I looked over the heads of the priests and saw the small mausoleum. No earth to earth for Lowell and Donna Cresley.

Two priests officiated at the ceremony that got under way just as it began to rain. The newspaper had sent a photographer, as had the cable-news network. Even though the doctor’s errors hadn’t been publicized, they were known. It would appear, in death, those who once curried favor with Dr. Cresley and his socialite wife had abandoned them. I whispered as much to Lake.

Lake said, “Cresley was a media hound. The good doctor contributed to the money chests of the politicians they loved, and the charities they promoted. He fixed up athletes the media adores, backed their advertisers, contributed to favored municipal projects, went to court as an expert for star attorneys—so why would the media write or air bad stories about him? Christ, he only made three mistakes.”

The first priest spoke of the mercy given by God to the souls of the faithful. He asked that God send angels to guard them and free their sins.

The second priest asked a merciful God to hear prayers and console those who grieve.

After the Amen, I heard rustling in the rows of black-clad folks and turned to see who caused the stir. From the lane, through the tombstones, came Prince Husam Saliba and Yasmin Saliba. Behind them was an older man I recognized but didn’t know, and Salman Habibi. The air vibrated. It was hardly a collective gasp, yet I felt the murmur roll through me.

Husam’s eyes zeroed in on mine and looked as if his coming here was the last thing in the world he wanted to do. Dressed in a black suit, tie and white shirt, he wore a ghutra and agal. His step was hesitant, and he walked at least three feet away from Yasmin. Yasmin wore a white head scarf that covered her forehead and wrapped around her chin. Otherwise she was dressed in a white, long-sleeved, high-collared blouse and long, black skirt. Salman looked exactly like what he was. A suited-up bodyguard. No ghutra or agal. The

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