Tuesday, May 18th 10:00 A.M.
St. Thomas the Apostle Church was a scrubbed-white structure looking like a New England calendar except for its city location. Dean arrived just as the service was beginning, having been at his desk since 7 a.m. stewing over the recent turn of events. The only decision he'd made was to do nothing until there was clear evidence tying Byrne to the money. With no firm plan of action emerging with the morning sun, Dean scooted out of the house early, not yet ready to discuss matters with Fred O'Connor. Let the old man think of something-after all, he'd been the one to make the Scranton connection, however tenuous, in the first place.
He took a few moments to sign the guest book but didn't bother looking at the names before his. He was sure Fred O'Connor would take care of that chore if he hadn't already. He knew the old man wouldn't miss the service and spotted him in the far right corner.
The crowd was respectable although it looked smaller due to the large size of the building. Dean quick-counted 138 heads from his back row seat. He recognized Edwin Mayer and a few of the other employees of World Wide, although he didn't see Jackie Rudman, the young man who had squealed on Cece Baldwin. Randy and Cynthia Byrne were in the front row seated next to a white-haired lady Dean assumed was Cynthia's mother. There were no heavily veiled figures lurking in the wings of the church.
A full funeral mass was not scheduled-only an informal memorial service. After some readings and a hymn, the priest moved to the pulpit. He seemed uncomfortable without the usual casket before him but was quite skillful in referring to Jeffrey Byrne's present status in sufficiently ambiguous terms as to not quite acknowledge Byrne was dead. He directed most of his remarks to the sadness of those left to cope with "this untimely misfortune." He spoke of Jeffrey Byrne's modest contributions to country, town, family and society in general, information probably learned only hours earlier.
Edwin Mayer rose to speak. What the man lacked in tact and diplomacy, he made up for in eloquence. He eschewed the pulpit and stood in front of the altar, looking like a caricature of Ichabod Crane, gaunt and gangling, but the words from his mouth were pure silver. The Jeffrey Byrne Mayer eulogized was a far different man than Mayer had described in his Philadelphia office. Unlike the priest, Mayer made no pretext that Byrne wasn't as dead as a Jacob Marley's knocker and, as Mayer described, was "walking the streets of gold with the angels." He directed his words directly to Cynthia Byrne with a smile of sticky sweetness that made Dean want to pop him. There was nary a dry eye in the place.