Abby laughed. ‘Now that’s a lovely way of saying weird. I know taxidermy is an odd sort of hobby, but I try to do one crazy thing per day to keep from going crazy. Would you mind taking your shoes off?’

Kate did as she was asked. She stepped out of her sneakers – which were still wet from the boat ramp – and followed Abby down a short hallway and into the kitchen. It was cluttered with curiosities. A wooden ladder was suspended across the kitchen ceiling, off which dangled various utensils: a wok, a handful of wine glasses, pots, pans, and a single soup ladle. A stolen street sign – Gilpin Ave – was nailed above the back door. Beside that was a wooden carving of a semiautomatic machine gun and the words, Forget the Dog, Beware the Owner.

The kitchen was so busy, in fact, that it took Kate a few seconds to realise what was spread out over the dining table.

Arranged neatly on a pink bath towel were a box of surgical gloves, a set of tiny glass eyes, a silver knife with a scalpel blade attached and a furry, half-skinned creature that Kate couldn’t identify. She took three quick steps backwards.

‘It’s a bush rat,’ Abby said with a grin, reading her gaze. ‘Marnie Conroy found the poor little bastard in the space between her wood heater and the wall. If I’d known I’d have company, I would have put him away. You want a beer?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘You’re really going to make me drink alone?’ She slammed the fridge shut. ‘Just kidding. I’m used to it.’

She sat down at the kitchen table and offered the seat across from her. Kate took off her parka, hung it on back of the chair and sat.

‘Ed won’t be long,’ Abby said.

‘Does he live here with you?’

Abby necked her beer, stifled a belch, and shook her head. ‘He has an apartment over on Deepwater, but he doesn’t have enough space for his tools, so he keeps them here.’

‘So, it’s just you in this house?’

‘Uh huh, which means I can drink as much as I want and fart as loud as I can. That’ll change when the hubby comes home, of course. The drinking part, anyway. Not the farts.’ She grinned, rocked back in her chair, and lit a cigarette. Smoke filled the room. ‘I know who you are.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You’re the widow, right? Of that poor fella who got killed at the boat ramps?’

‘How did you…’