ABOUT 10 A.M., AFTER a couple of hours wrestling with the homily for Ashley’s funeral, I call Helen.
“How’s your day going?” she asks, surprisingly chipper, considering everything.
“Eh, all right. Nate’s still depressed, but he has a crime scene to clean up, so he’s what some would consider not quite as miserable. I’ve been trying to work my way through the homily for tomorrow.”
“Oh,” she says quietly. “How’s that going?”
“Great. Just great,” I say, my voice heavy with sarcasm. “You would think I’d become an expert on funeral homilies by now. This is the fourth one in a year I’ve had to write.”
“I know,” she says, sympathetic. “I am so sorry.”
I clear my throat. “Well, comes with the collar,” I say. “How about you? How’s your day been so far?”
“Still trying to get my mind around the
