The Hennepin County Medical Examiner’s call woke her early Friday. A woman said they had released Margot’s body and someone needed to make arrangements for it to be taken away.

Betsy said she would do so, and wandered the apartment in a mild panic for five minutes. Then she recalled Jill saying there was one funeral home she could trust—but what was its name? She picked up the slim phone directory for Excelsior, Shorewood, Deephaven, and Tonka Bay, and saw there was exactly one funeral home in Excelsior, Huber’s. That was it. She phoned and got an answering service, and left an urgent message.

She had just finished brushing her teeth when the phone rang. It was Irene Potter, asking if there was anything Betsy wanted done.

“You want to do me a favor?” said Betsy. “Stay off the phone. I’m waiting for an important call and I don’t want the phone tied up.”

She was still trying to decipher the coffeemaker’s methods when the phone rang again, and it was Paul Huber.

Instead of the oily voice she expected, Huber sounded perfectly ordinary, except he was also brisk, knowledgeable, and efficient. He said he would bring Margot’s body to the funeral home; yes, he knew the procedure, it was all routine and she needn’t worry. He then made an appointment with her for first thing that afternoon, to discuss the rest of the arrangements.

Betsy sat curled in Margot’s chair, sipping coffee and worrying. Didn’t funerals cost a great deal of money? Betsy had some money, not much, and most of it was in an IRA, inaccessible.

How was she going to pay for this?

What did other people do?

Betsy knew there were special life-insurance policies people took out to cover final expenses. But Betsy remembered when her father had died; it took weeks for insurance companies to pay off. Betsy needed money by this afternoon.

Maybe funeral homes allowed people to charge funerals.

Betsy had a charge card. She used it sparingly, having learned to fear debt during her first marriage. So it was nowhere near its limit, which on the other hand was a modest five thousand dollars. She had hoped to save it for an emergency—but surely this was an emergency. She couldn’t store Margot in the refrigerator until she saved enough money to bury her. Was it bad manners to ask a funeral director if he took Visa?

And was the three thousand seven hundred dollars left in credit enough?

Maybe Margot had cash somewhere. Jill had told her that Margot emptied the cash drawer every night. Where did she put the money? Betsy remembered walking to the bank’s night deposit with Margot on Monday evening. But not all the money went into the bank—she needed some to prime the drawer every morning.

Betsy looked toward the little hall that led to Margot’s bedroom. Betsy had to go see, go pry. Feeling guilty as a child about to steal a quarter from her mother’s purse, she slipped down the short hall to the bedroom door.