“Right,” he said firmly. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

I wasn’t in the habit of feeling so sure about that, since I spent a lot of time with surprised dead people. But I was going to let it slide for now.

This funeral home was one of the one-story brick models, with a parking lot that would fill up way too quickly. I’ve been in hundreds of funeral homes, since lots of people don’t make up their minds until the last minute about asking me in. This would be one of the two-viewing-rooms kind, I was willing to put money on it. After we walked into the lobby, sure enough there were two doors facing us, each with a podium outside with a signing book waiting for mourners. A sign on a stand, the kind with removable white letters that stick into rows of black feltlike material, said that the viewing room on the right contained James O. Burris. The one on the left was empty. There were also rooms to our right and left; one of those would be for the owner. The other would be for a co-owner or assistant, or it would maybe be employed as a small reception room for the bereaved family.

And here came the funeral director herself, a comfortably round woman in her fifties. She was wearing a neat pantsuit and comfortable shoes, and her hair and makeup were also on the comfortable side.

“Hello,” she said, with a kind of subdued smile that must be her stock-in-trade. “Are you Ms. Connelly?”

“I am.”

“And you’re here to view the remains of Mrs. Bernardo?”

“I am.”

“Tolliver Lang,” Tolliver said, and held out his hand.

“Cleda Humphrey,” she said, and shook it heartily. She led us to the back of the building, down a long central hall. There was a rear door, which she unlocked, and we followed her across a bit of parking lot to a large building in the back, which was really a very nice shed that was brick, to match the main building. “Mrs. Bernardo is back here,” she said, “since she’s not going to be buried here. We keep our temporary visitors in a transition room back here.”

“Transition room” turned out to be Cleda Humphrey’s comfort-speak for “refrigerator.” She opened a gleaming stainless steel door and a draft of cold air billowed out. In a black plastic bag on a gurney lay Xylda. “She’s still in her hospital gown, with all the tubes and so on still attached until the autopsy decision is made,” the funeral director said.

Shit, I thought. Tolliver’s face went very rigid. “At least her soul’s gone,” I said, and I could have slapped myself when I realized I’d spoken out loud.

“Oh,” said the cheerful, motherly woman. “You can see ’em, too.”

“Yes,” I said, really startled.

“I thought I might be the only one.”