Something's Knot Kosher Read Online Free

cruise.”
    â€œGood idea. I’ll see you in a little while.”
    Instead of my usual stretch denim jeans, I wore a blue linen dress more appropriate to the sad business the three of us would be conducting this morning. When I arrived at Birdie’s house, I headed straight to the kitchen, where I heard my friends talking.
    Lucy sat with a cup of coffee at an old farm table painted green. Famous for always dressing with a theme, she wore peach-colored slacks with matching sandals. A long strand of white pearls rested luxuriously against an orange silk blouse. She looked as cool as a mango smoothie.
    Birdie pulled a sheet of fragrant coconut ginger cookies out of the oven. White flour dusted the bib of her denim overalls. She transferred the hot cookies onto a cooling rack and we hugged. She smelled like vanilla extract and cinnamon. “Hello, Martha dear. There’s fresh coffee on the counter.”
    I grabbed a cookie. “My favorite. It’s almost time to leave, Birdie. Are you going to change?”
    She glanced at her clothes and brushed off the flour. “No. Let’s get this over with.” Birdie grabbed her house keys and hobbled toward the front door. I could tell her arthritic knees gave her grief today.
    My seventy-six-year-old friend was one of a kind. Lucy and I suspected she had once been a beatnik or a hippie, because she refused to play the part of a snooty banker’s wife. Her only interests were her garden, her kitchen, and her quilts. You got what you saw with Birdie—long white braid, denim overalls, Birkenstock sandals, and a heart as big as the earth. How she ended up in a loveless marriage with a fussy old banker for a husband baffled me. Equally mysterious was why Russell Watson chose such a free spirit to spend his well-ordered life with.
    Lucy’s eyes widened at Birdie’s refusal to wear something more appropriate to her appointment at the mortuary. She threw me a quizzical look behind Birdie’s back.
    I shrugged and whispered, “Cut her some slack. She’s grieving.”
    A half hour later we arrived at Pearly Gates Presbyterian Mortuary. The tan brick and stucco building sat on a quiet corner in Burbank and blended in with the pre-World War II neighborhood. A discreet sign on the wide front lawn directed us to a parking lot in the rear. Lucy maneuvered her vintage black Caddy with the shark fins down the long driveway and pulled into a handicapped space nearest the entrance.
    I slid out of the backseat, opened the front passenger door for Birdie, and helped her stand. “You okay?”
    She stood in the warm July morning and eyed the door without moving. Jaw set in determination, she swallowed once and nodded. Then she grabbed my arm for support and walked slowly toward the entrance. My heart ached for her.
    A blast of cool air hit our faces when we pushed open the door. Soothing elevator music wafted into the reception area through speakers in the ceiling. The walls were painted a muted teal, and a gray carpet muffled our steps.
    A dark-haired woman sat texting on her cell phone. As soon as she saw us, she quickly put down the phone and lifted her pleasant round face. “How may I help you today?”
    â€œWe called yesterday for an appointment regarding Russell Watson.” I gestured toward Birdie. “This is Mrs. Watson.”
    The woman directed us to comfortable chairs upholstered in pumpkin-colored velvet and brought us each a bottle of cold water.
    Five minutes later, the door opened to an office directly behind the reception desk, and a man in a dark suit emerged. He stood about five feet ten with a receding hairline and a chin to match. He clasped his hands and glided toward us. “I’m Chester Towsley, owner of Pearly Gates. May I say how sorry I am for your loss.” His left eye winked in a nervous tic as he examined our faces. “Which one of you ladies is Mrs. Watson?”
    â€œI