Double pay, Regan thought. And five days at sea on a luxury vessel. She had the time. She had even called Livingston and offered to stay on for a bit, but he had said that at this point there was really nothing she could do. Maybe when Veronica was napping she’d be able to sneak in some visits with her parents.

“All right, Philip, what time will they pick me up?”

“You’re doing what?” Kit’s voice was almost a shriek when Regan explained the phone call. “Reilly, I’ve got to tell you. I think you’ve really lost it this time.”

“I’m being paid. It eases the pain.” Regan kicked off her shoes. “Believe it or not, I’m riding all the way to Southampton in a Saint Polycarp’s van with shake-em-up Edwin at the wheel. I’d better get some sleep.”

Kit, who had already changed, yawned as she got into bed. “Well, one thing I do agree with. Veronica shouldn’t be let out without a leash. But better you than me. I’ll drive down from Connecticut and be your welcoming committee when your ship comes in. Hopefully you won’t have to be carried off.”

Chapter 7

MONDAY, JUNE 22

LONDON

NOT FOR THE first time in their thirty-five years of marriage did Nora Regan Reilly wish that somewhere along the way Luke had learned to pick up the pace of his speech. That thought was followed by the acknowledgment that she had fallen in love on their first date with his Jimmy Stewart looks and vocal pattern. She eyed him affectionately and then anxiously glanced at her watch. They had been just about to follow the bellman out of their suite in London’s Stafford Hotel when the phone rang.

It was Herbert Kelly, director of the Summit branch of the Reilly Funeral Homes of New Jersey, and he had a problem. The ninety-year-old widow of the ninety-eight-year-old former mayor was insisting that her husband be laid out in the central parlor. Unfortunately it had been a bad week for retired politicians in Summit, and the main parlor would be occupied for the next day and a half by a former congressman.

Usually Kelly would have taken care of this matter without bothering Luke, but this was truly a delicate situation. Mrs. Shea was the recognized matriarch of the awesomely large Shea clan and had been Luke’s first important client when he bought the then struggling mortuary the year he and Nora were married. That was when, as Mrs. Shea put it, her octogenarian mother had been “gathered by God.”

“The other funeral parlor in town doesn’t make people look nice and natural,” she had told Luke, and had given him the chance to “make Mother took as pretty and content as she was when she watched the ‘Ed Sullivan’ show every Sunday night. She always looked forward to it.”