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they had been read.
    The morning rush went smoothly, Maeve having prepared just enough scones and muffins so that only a few were left by the time midmorning rolled around. Jo had handled the front of the store with an ease and flexibility Maeve hadn’t really seen to date, and she wondered if this was a Jo she could rely on completely if she wanted to take a vacation day in the near future. By lunchtime, though, Jo’s energy was flagging and they fell into their usual roles of stressed-out baker and hapless assistant.
    Instead of working, Jo was reading aloud from the village’s local rag, the Day Timer, and her favorite feature, the police blotter, which was particularly entertaining that day.
    She was draped over the counter, her long legs stretched out behind her, her short hair sticking up in a number of different directions. Her overalls were covered with flour, making it appear that she had worked far harder at baking and with more efficiency that morning than she actually had. “Get this one,” she said. “‘A woman called the Farringville Police to report that she didn’t like the e-mail alert on her new cell phone. An officer responded and changed the ringtone to one the woman found more pleasing to the ear.’”
    Maeve was restocking the front glass case with cupcakes, red velvet this time, her biggest seller. “You’re making that up.”
    “Hand to God,” Jo said, putting a hand over her heart. “Our tax dollars at work. Listen to the next one. ‘Picnickers at Farringville Park called to report an auspicious diver in the Hudson River.’” She waited a beat. “You heard me right. Auspicious. As in ‘providential’ or ‘fortunate.’”
    “Must have been a good day for diving.” Maeve pulled the empty platter out of the case. “What did the police do with this charming fellow?”
    “Nothing. Blotter says he was just looking for fish.”
    “As only an auspicious diver can,” Maeve said. She pulled off her apron. “Sorry I have to leave you to close,” she said. “I would say that I’d be back by four, but I know how long these Conlon-Donovan things take.”
    “I still think my people have the right idea,” Jo said, folding the paper into perfect rectangles. “Die one day, bury the next.”
    “Yeah, but then you have that whole sitting-on-a-box thing for seven days, right?” Maeve grabbed her peacoat from the back of the kitchen door and put it on.
    “With the best bagels and lox known to mankind on the buffet,” Jo said. “The Jews can take any event and make it a deli day.” She grabbed a bottle of glass cleaner and a roll of paper towels from under the counter. “Go,” she said, shooing Maeve out the door. “Who wouldn’t want to go to an ash scattering in the middle of a gorgeous October day?”
    Maeve hesitated. When she put it like that? Not her.
    “You bringing Jack?” Jo asked.
    “He wouldn’t miss it,” Maeve said, offering a little laugh. For the comic relief alone, she had to bring Jack. His asides would be the only thing keeping her sane during Sean’s dispersal from the banks of the Hudson River, a journey south that would take her to her old Bronx neighborhood.
    So why was she going? Maybe to make sure he really was dead.
    Jo bowed at the waist and offered a benediction in Hebrew.
    Maeve asked for a translation. She had gotten used to most of Jo’s Yiddish and Hebrew expressions, but this was a new one.
    “Stay strong,” Jo said, focusing her attention on the glass case and the myriad fingerprints that had appeared there.
    Maeve went out to the parking lot and noticed the stiff breeze that had kicked up between the time she’d left the house and arrived at the store. Not really the perfect weather for scattering ashes. She drove the short distance to the assisted-living facility, fetched Jack, and headed south on the parkway.
    “Hated the snot,” Jack said. “Hate that Dolores even more. She’s a wailer.”
    That was putting it kindly. Maeve would