One of the lesser-mentioned associations common to law enforcement is the oft-repeated relationship cops have with funeral home personnel. As is true between shop owner and UPS driver, the two professions meet up regularly. It creates a camaraderie that Joe now decided to exploit, especially after learning that the firm handling Lucy Shaw’s “details”—as the euphemism went—was owned by an old high school pal of his, Barbara Mahoney.

Joe and Barb had attended school in Thetford, Vermont, where both had been reared. Later, Barb had met and married Dennis Mahoney and become swept up in the funeral business. Now located in Claremont, New Hampshire, just across the Connecticut River, and widowed ten years before—Dennis having been overly fond of cigarettes, fast food, and beer—Barb was still at it.

It hadn’t been the most varied or effervescent of lives, but useful, lucrative, and happily predictable, mirroring the girl’s appetites that Joe had known decades ago.

Not surprisingly, funeral homes present themselves in imitation of the upstairs/downstairs portrait known to American viewers of British movies, with a fancy, sober façade masking some very prosaic inner workings.

Joe thus avoided the ornate and imposing main entrance of Mahoney’s for where he suspected he was likely to find someone alive and receptive.

What he didn’t expect was Barb herself, in the open garage, vacuuming out the front of one of her vans.

“Joe Gunther!” she exclaimed as she caught sight of him through the windshield, cut the machine, and stepped out of the vehicle. “My God, I hope I don’t look as old as you do.”

She walked up to him, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him on the lips, laughing afterward. “I always wanted to do that when we were in school. One more off the bucket list. How the hell are you?”

He stood rooted in place, his astonishment plain, revising his first plan to reintroduce himself after such a long time.

He laughed and ran his hand through his hair. “Damn, Barb. No wonder you’ve made such a success of yourself.”

She was also, he thought, accurate concerning her appearance. Whether it was genetics, cosmetics, clean living, or all three, Barb Mahoney looked twenty years younger than he knew her to be.

In silent exchange for his appraising glance, she suddenly became serious, watching his face carefully. “Shoot,” she said. “I should’ve asked if everybody was okay. Your mom? Your brother, Leo?”

He quickly put her at ease. “Oh, no. Barb. I’m sorry. Understandable, but no. That’s not why I’m here.” He turned and indicated the open garage door. “I was hoping my choice of entrances would take the edge off that.”

Her features relaxed again. “Well, they did, in case you didn’t notice, but I had to ask. You know how it is.”

“I do, I do. And don’t misunderstand. I appreciated the welcome.”

She gave him a leer. “Least I could do. You still a cop?”

“Oh, yeah. Kind of a habit I couldn’t break.”

She nodded. “I know the feeling. Still single?”