“What?” Frederick asks on a chuckle. “Did he live in an old house and lick the paint? Or work in a factory? Or chew on pencils as an afternoon snack?”

“No, no, and pencils are graphite, not lead,” I answer automatically. “Chewing on them can wreck your teeth but not increase metal levels in your blood.”

“You would be the one to know that, wouldn’t you?” he says, chuckling harder now. The image of his belly jiggling like a bowl full of jelly comes to my mind.

“The police are still investigating because there’s no clear cause of death, though there were some heart abnormalities too. Until they close the case, we can’t pay out the claim, anyway. Mrs. Horne will have to wait.”

“Too bad it wasn’t a suicide,” Frederick says on a sigh. “No claim payout then.”

That’s true, but callous, even for a joke.

“Pretty sure he didn’t poison himself into a heart attack,” I answer flatly. “It’d be the most unique case for the books if he did.”

“Yeah, I figured. Well, be on alert with this one. I get the feeling this woman is going to be a problem. Maybe check in with the police and coroner so we can get in front of any potential lawsuit?”

Actually, that’s a great idea, and a really good excuse to go see Zoey again in her safe space. At work.

Yeah, I’m going to track her down again, barge into her morgue, and see if I can get her to eat dinner with me again. It might not be an official date the way I want it to be, but I’ll take what I can get.

A guy’s gotta eat, and so does Zoey.

* * *

The Williamson County Sheriff’s Office is quiet when I walk inside. Actually, it’s basically a ghost town with no one in sight. There are six desks with ancient desktop computers, a water cooler between two windows, and a long table beneath a dry erase board off to the side that seems to be a shared workspace.

“Hello?” I call out.

A door opens on my right, and a blonde, middle-aged man in a tan uniform appears. He swipes at his mustache . . . no, he’s checking his breath. My guess is he was out on a smoke break.

“Sheriff Jeff Barnes, what can I do for you?” he offers. He doesn’t offer a hand, which I honestly appreciate. Instead, he gives me a professional nod.

It’s good, and I return the gesture. “Nice to meet you, Sheriff. I’m Blake Hale from Everlife Insurance. I’d like to talk to you about a claim we’ve had from the beneficiary of Richard Horne.”

Jeff’s lips quirk under his thick mustache, but he reassumes his professional demeanor quickly. “Sure thing. Hale, you said? Come on over here and let me see what I got on ol’ Dickie Boy.”