Forgetting all about the boob sweat, I trace the lines of her loopy, tightly knit handwriting and smile, which is completely inappropriate when I’m sitting across from a widow, but the fact that her name has come up again seems like a good omen after my conversation with Trey this morning.

If nothing else, it’ll be a good opener on why I’m calling . . . funny story, I met someone we have in common today.

Oh, wait, then she’ll ask who and I’ll have to say ‘a widow who gave me a Zoey Walker autographed death certificate.’ That’s not so much a funny story as a fiery red flag of caution.

Mrs. Horne’s next question ends my mental trip back into Zoey’s life. “Do you need my bank account information too? So you can transfer the money?”

“Uh, excuse me?”

“The money?” Mrs. Horne says. “How do I get the money today?”

My brows knit together. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Horne, but it’s not quite that simple. I’ll file the claim, they’ll do their investigation, and then once it’s ruled in compliance with the terms of the policy, the payment will be made as set forth in the beneficiary section.”

Mrs. Horne’s eyes narrow, and for the first time I see emotion in her face. And it’s not a nice one, either. “You mean I don’t get my money today? I have to wait even longer?”

Damn. So much for the lost and hurting widow. Mrs. Horne’s acting like planting her husband in the ground was planting a money tree. And it’s time to harvest, dammit. “I’m afraid not. But we’ll do everything we can to process the claim quickly and painlessly.”

“Not quick enough,” she says in a huff, a note of whine entering her voice. “I’ve been waiting forever.”

I glance down at the date of death to see that it’s mere days ago despite the eons Mrs. Horne makes it sound like, but I’m trying to give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe Dick Horne lived up to his name and was a terrible husband and she counts those suffering years or something. “Of course, loss can make the days seem extraordinarily long. I’ll do my best.”

“Just hurry. Call me when it’s done.”

Do I look like Amazon or something? Next day delivery with a Prime policy? Either way, in Yvette Horne’s mind, the meeting is over. She stands, and I follow, offering her a hand. She shakes like a limp noodle who expects her hand to be kissed, but she’s no queen. Queen Liz definitely doesn’t keep letters of knighthood or whatever tucked in her cleavage.