“But the sheriff still doesn’t want us to go, because he still thinks we must know something.”

“We could just leave anyway,” I said. “There’s no legal way he can keep us here, right?”

“I don’t think so,” Tolliver said. He’d been gripping my arms, and when he let go, I got that tingly feeling as blood rushed back through the veins and arteries. “But you know one bad word from law enforcement will mean we’ll lose a lot of jobs.”

That was true enough. The last time a chief of police had been dissatisfied with me—he’d been convinced I had some prior knowledge of the body’s location, that I was in direct communication with the killer and out to feather my own nest—I’d had almost no income for six months. It had been a hard time, and I’d had enough hard times. I didn’t want any more, ever.

“Your boyfriend’ll give us a good word,” Tolliver said teasingly, trying to lift my spirits.

I didn’t even protest over Tolliver’s use of the term “boyfriend.” I knew he didn’t believe that Hollis was anything to me. As usual, he was both right and wrong.

eight

GLEASON and Sons Mortuary was a place of heavy carpeting and dark corners. It was picturesquely located in an old Victorian-style home, and it was landscaped outside and painted a serene blue inside, with stained-glass windows that must have cost a small fortune. The restored Victorian held the two viewing rooms, an office where the families could select—and pay—for caskets and other services, and a kitchen to brew the constant stream of coffee consumed by mourners. A low, discreet modern addition in the rear held the grimmer rooms where the actual functions of the funeral home were conducted.

Elijah Gleason showed us the more public part before we went to the modern addition. He was proud of his accomplishments as the third Gleason in the funeral business in Sarne, and I had respect for following an honorable tradition. He was a short, stout man in his late thirties with slicked thick black hair and a wide, thin-lipped mouth.

“This is my wife Laura,” he said as we passed an open door. The woman inside waved. She had very short brown hair and a rounded figure. “She does my books in the winter, and in the summer she’s Aunt Hattie at Aunt Hattie’s Ice Cream Parlor.” The woman smiled and nodded in an abstract way and returned her attention to the computer screen before her. From the coatrack in the corner hung a soft, flowered bonnet and a matching long apron. I hoped Aunt Hattie’s was air conditioned.

“I guess your business is pretty constant, rather than seasonal,” I said, for lack of some better response.