“I do not know,” Aanya said doubtfully. “The budget crisis means not so many autopsies, and the state, they are saying he died of flu. The children, they are arriving tonight to conduct the funeral. I can ask them to authorize an examination by a private pathologist, but people are— I can’t think of the word in English. It troubles people to have their family members cut upon. It would trouble me, I know.”

“I can understand that.” I tried to keep the impatience out of my voice. “But it’s such a big coincidence, his collapse at the moment that someone wanted to steal the dead woman’s body.”

“I will try,” Aanya said unhappily. “I understand what you are saying, but . . . well, I will try.”

When she hung up, I called Peppy to me. The sun was starting to set, the air was getting cold, she’d had almost two hours of fun, which had left her coated in mud, with burs embedded in the feathers on her tail and haunches.

“You look like a role model for every golden who ever pined for a life in the open,” I told her, trying to extract the worst of the burs. Since she kept squirming to bite at them herself, it was a frustrating business. Free State Dogs had advertised a grooming service. I called and was told that if I got her there in the next twenty minutes, they’d take care of her.

“Okay, bellissima, we’re going to run like the wind and drive like Danica Patrick!”

I dropped her off at Free State one minute over the limit, but the woman at the desk had seen Peppy on her two days at the place and said she’d fit her in.

“We close at six on Sundays. If you’re not back by then, we’ll board her overnight and charge you for twenty-four hours.”

I looked at the clock. One hour. Not enough time to go to the Kiels’ and persuade them to talk, but I was close to St. Raphael’s. While I drove, I texted Bernie on one of my burner phones. Cady had dropped her at the B and B; I would be glad to know she was working on an essay for her French-literature class.

I was glad to know. I was glad to believe it even if it wasn’t true.

Sunday evening the receptionist at St. Rafe’s was a bored youth playing a game on his phone. When I asked for Randy Marx, he pushed a button on the desk phone without taking his eyes from his screen.

“Randy? Some lady here to see you. . . . I didn’t ask.” He sighed and said, without looking at me, “Your name?”

“V.I. Warshawski.”

“Like I can be expected to say that,” he grumbled. “She’s a foreigner,” he added to the desk phone. “Viyai something.”

“Warshawski!” I shouted. “Chicago detective. Sonia Kiel.”