Constantine Stiva had set up business thirty years ago and had presided over mourners every day since. Stiva was the consummate undertaker, his mouth forever fixed in Muzak mode, his high forehead pale and soothing as cold custard, his movements always unobtrusive and silent. Constantine Stiva … the stealth embalmer.

Lately Constantine’s stepson, Spiro, had begun making undertaker noises, hovering at Constantine’s side during evening viewings and assisting in morning burials. Death was clearly Constantine Stiva’s life. It seemed more a spectator sport to Spiro. His smiles of condolence were all lips and teeth and no eyes. If I had to venture a guess as to his industry pleasures I’d go with the chemistry—the tilt-top tables and the pancreatic harpoons. Mary Lou Molnar’s little sister went to grade school with Spiro and reported to Mary Lou that Spiro had saved his fingernail clippings in a glass jar.

Spiro was small and dark with hairy knuckles and a face that was dominated by nose and sloping forehead. The uncharitable truth was that he looked like a rat on steroids, and this rumor about the fingernail-saving did nothing to enhance his image in my eyes.

He’d been friends with Moogey Bues, but he hadn’t seemed especially disturbed by the shooting. I’d spoken to him briefly while working my way through Kenny’s little black book. Spiro’s response had been politely guarded. Yes, he’d hung with Moogey and Kenny in high school. And yes, they’d stayed friends. No, he couldn’t think of a motive for either shooting. No, he hadn’t seen Kenny since his arrest and hadn’t a clue as to his whereabouts.

Constantine was nowhere to be seen in the lobby, but Spiro stood directing traffic in a conservative dark suit and crisp white shirt.

Grandma looked him over as one would a cheap imitation of good jewelry. “Where’s Con?” she asked.

“In the hospital. Herniated disk. Happened last week.”

“No!” Grandma said on a sharp intake of air. “Who’s taking care of the business?”

“Me. I pretty much run the place, anyway. And then Louie’s here, of course.”

“Who’s Louie?”

“Louie Moon,” Spiro told her. “You probably don’t know him because he mostly works mornings, and sometimes he drives. He’s been with us for about six months.”

A young woman pushed through the front door and stood halfway into the foyer. She searched the room while she unbuttoned her coat. She caught Spiro’s eye, and Spiro did his official undertaker nod of greeting. The young woman nodded back.

“Looks like she’s interested in you,” Grandma said to Spiro.

Spiro smiled, showing prominent incisors and lowers crooked enough to give an orthodontist wet dreams. “A lot of women are interested in me. I’m a pretty good catch.” He spread his arms wide. “This will all be mine someday.”

“I guess I never looked at you in that light,” Grandma said. “I suppose you could support a woman in fine style.”

“I’m thinking of expanding,” he said. “Maybe franchising the name.”

“Did you hear that?” Grandma said to me. “Isn’t it nice to find a young man with ambition.”