“Uh, how kind—”

“But your hands! Your scarified hands! My goodness, those poor ham hocks are positively nicked to bits.”

“The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh. Ma’am, I’m a detective. Perhaps you could answer a couple of questions.”

“A real detective. Like Angela Lansbury and Tom Selleck. Where’s your fedora? Where’s your greatcoat? You don’t even have a mustache. May I see your ID, please?”

I passed her my identification.

“Did you know a young man named Sean Pruitt?” I said while she squinted at my card.

“Know him? I coveted him.” She relinquished my card. “Sean was a cutie pie.”

“Was he your client?”

“Heavens, no. He worked with Frederick. Frederick may have had a thing for him too.”

“The Mares of Thrace. Would you tell me what that is, exactly?”

“The Mares? Horses are sweaty, dreadful beasts. Lost my granddaughter to one. Kicked her in the head. Maddened because they eat flesh. Especially the mares.”

“You’re probably right. What of Sean? Was he a member?”

“Wish I could tell you, Mr. Detective. Would any respectable club have that boy? He wasn’t one-hundred-percent right in the noggin. Saddest boy in town. Clubs want happy people. Not sad sacks.”

She reached into her purse and brought forth red lipstick in a silver tube. She applied the lipstick thickly, her eyes on mine as she did so. Done, her lips were blood red, like she’d rooted in a pile of fresh meat. She smacked her lips.

I gave her a thumbs-up.

“Mr. Detective,” Nancy the Beautician said. “Mr. Detective, I certainly hope I helped you.” She stood and inclined her head toward me. “Sean is dead, Mr. Detective. Worst kind of dead. The no-comebacks type of dead.”

I maintained a bland expression, trying not to let on that my skin wanted to crawl away.

“Do you have any idea what happened, ma’am?”

She made her fingers into claws and lightly kneaded my shoulders through the suit. Her nails were jet black. Her hands were much stronger than they appeared. Little meat hooks.

“Those are prison muscles. Lose thirty pounds, you wouldn’t have to hide that body under a suit.” She shuddered and her eyes rolled to the whites and back. She lowered her arms and smirked coyly. “Yes, yes, I can tell the fate of simpering Sean Pruitt. He was dropped down a well. That’s how it’s done with unwanted children who won’t be happy. The leeches drank his blood. The worms had his flesh. His soul was conducted at light speed along the coil. His soul is either in heaven or hell. Same for you, same for me.”

“Ma’am—”

“Move along, Mr. Detective. You’re wanted in the main house.” She gestured. “The hounds are here to fetch you. See? See?”

I glanced around. No one of note. My phone rang and her smile broadened.

“Mr. Coleridge,” a man said. “I’m going to give you an address. Lunch is at high noon. We put on quite a spread. Don’t be late.”