“Of course you don’t, of course you don’t. Trust a Van Fleet to stick his foot in his mouth. What can I do for you?”

“Dealing with all these new things … I’ve been having a lot of anxiety issues. Scared of my own shadow.” Rose smiles apologetically. “That’s why I’m interviewing a lawn man in a mall, for heaven’s sake. If you could just kind of keep an eye on things? I’d feel a lot more secure knowing you were watching out for me. Sorry to be such a silly old thing.”

“No apology necessary. Glad to do it. You need me, just whistle.”

“Just put my lips together and blow?” Rose can’t resist.

His eyes widen, then crinkle into a grin. “You got it, lady.”

“What was that about?” Eddie growls as Rose sits down primly on the end of the bench.

Eddie is pale under the swarthy skin, leaving an unhealthy grayish tinge around his mouth and nose. In contrast, his cheeks are ruddy. Scared, Rose surmises, scared and angry. Not a good combination.

A moment passes while Eddie glares from beneath the brim of his ball cap.

When it becomes clear Rose is not going to be intimidated, he says, “You turn me in to that mall cop? You did, and you got a dead mall cop on your conscience.”

“If I turn you in, it won’t be to a mall cop, or in a crowd of innocent bystanders, and I will be as far away from the incident as I can get. I was just saying hello. Warren is a friend of mine.”

“I thought you were new here, didn’t have any friends.” His eyes travel from Rose’s face to a bowling bag between his feet.

“I bond quickly,” Rose says. “What’s in the bag, Eddie?” Given its round shape and sturdy handles, Rose can’t help but picture a severed head. It is precisely the sort of vehicle severed heads would be delivered in.

“You want to see it?” Eddie asks dangerously. “You want me to take it out and show it to you?”

“A verbal description will be sufficient,” Rose manages. She is surer than ever it is a severed head, but can’t fathom whose. The cola nurse? Chuck? The thought of Chuck Boster and his “good” wife’s love of roses makes her eyes sting. “Let me see it.” The words stick in her throat, producing a croak.

Eddie shoves the bag in her direction with the side of his foot. “I wouldn’t open it too wide if I were you,” he warns. “Wouldn’t want your cop pal peeking in.”

No trail of blood smears the pale tile floor where the bag has slid. Fluorescent lights and black fabric make it impossible to tell if any bodily liquids stain the bag. Rose doesn’t smell anything. She’s read that blood smells like copper tastes. Or vice versa.