"Well," I said finally, "I hope it was quick."

"I told them we'd have to finish our business here first, then we'd drive back up there."

"I'm ready." I tucked my blouse in my gray slacks. I pulled on my matching blazer.

"Hey, the jacket matches your eyes," Tolliver said.

"That was my intent," I said dryly. Tolliver always seemed to think that if I looked good, it was a happy accident. The blouse I wore with the gray suit was light green, with a kind of bamboo pattern on it. I put on a gold chain that Tolliver had given me the previous Christmas, and slid into black pumps. I fluffed my hair, checked my makeup, and told Tolliver I was ready. He was wearing a long-sleeved cotton pullover sweater in a dark red. He looked very good in it. I'd given it to him.

We met the client and her lawyer at the designated cemetery, one of those modern ones with flat headstones. They're cheaper, and more convenient for the mower. Though not atmospheric, the "park" look does make for easier walking.

The lawyer, a woman in her sixties, made it clear she thought I was in the business of defrauding the desperate and grief stricken. I was getting a lot of red flags, not only from the lawyer's attitude, but from the twitchiness of the client. Following our standard procedure when I got vibes like those, I endorsed the check and handed it to Tolliver, indicating he should go to the bank while I did the "reading." The situation was showing all the indicators of a bad transaction.

The client, a heavy, peevish woman in her forties, wanted her husband to have died of something more dramatic than a radio falling into his bathtub. (Bathtubs had been big this month. Sometimes I got such a run of one cause of death that it made even me nervous. Last year, I had a streak of accidental drownings—five in a row. Made me scared to go swimming for a couple of months.) Geneva Roller, the client, had her own elaborate conspiracy theory about how the radio came to be in the bathtub. Her theory involved Mr. Roller's first wife and his best friend.

I love it when the location of the body is known. It was a little treat when the client led me directly to her husband's grave. Geneva Roller was a brisk walker, and I could feel the heels of my pumps sinking into the soft dirt. The lawyer was right behind me, as if I'd cut and run unless I was blocked in.

We stopped by a headstone reading Farley Roller. To give Geneva her emotional money's worth, I stepped onto the grave and crouched, my hand resting on the headstone. Farley, I thought, what the hell happened to you? And then I saw it, as I always did. To let Geneva know what was going on, I said, "He is in the tub. He has—um, he's uncircumcised." That was unusual.

This convinced my client I was the real deal. Geneva Roller gasped, her hand going up to her chest. Her bright red lips formed an O. The lawyer, Patsy Bolton, snorted. "Anyone could know that, Geneva," she said.

Right, that was the first thing I asked guys.

"He's whistling," I said. I couldn't hear what Farley Roller was whistling, unfortunately. I could see the counter in the bathroom. "There's a radio on the counter," I said. "I think he's whistling along with the music." This was one of the times when I saw more than the moment of death. This was not the norm.

"He did that when he bathed," Geneva breathed. "He did, Patsy!" The lawyer looked less skeptical and more spooked.

I said. "There's the cat. On the bathroom counter. A marmalade color cat."

"Patpaws," said Geneva, smiling. I was willing to bet the lawyer wasn't smiling.

"The cat's bracing to leap over the tub to the open window."

"The window was open," Geneva said. She wasn't smiling anymore.

"The cat knocked the radio into the water," I said.

Then the cat leaped out of the window and into the yard while Mr. Roller came to his end. The bathtub was an old one, an unusual shade of avocado green. "You have a green tub," I said, shaking my head in puzzlement. "Can that be right?"

Patsy the lawyer was gaping at me. "You're for real," she said. "I actually believe you. Their tub is avocado."

I got to my feet, dusting off my knees. I ignored Patsy Bolton. "I'm so sorry, Ms. Roller. Your cat killed your husband in a freak accident," I said. I assumed this would be good news.

"NO!" Geneva Roller yelled, and even the lawyer looked astonished.

"Geneva, this is a reasonable explanation," Patsy Bolton began, giving her client a formidable stare, but Geneva Roller had no emotional restraints.

"It was his first wife, that Angela. It was her, I know it! She went in the house while I was at the store, and she murdered him. Angela did it. Not my little Patpaws!"

I'd had disbelieving reactions before, of course, though most often these came when I'd discovered the death was a suicide. So it sure wasn't the first time I'd found that people invest a lot in their theories. In a Jack Nicholson moment, I very nearly told Geneva Roller that she couldn't handle the truth.

"I'll take my check back. I won't pay you a dime," she hissed. I was glad I'd sent Tolliver to the bank.

Looking over Geneva's shoulder, I could see our car turning into the cemetery. Relief gave me courage.

"Ms. Roller, your cat caused an accident, quite innocently. Your husband wasn't murdered. There's no one to blame," I said.

She launched herself at me, and the lawyer caught her by the shoulders. "Geneva, recall who you are," Patsy Bolton said. Her cheeks were red, and her brown-and-gray streaked hair had become a mess in the breeze that had sprung up. "Don't embarrass yourself like this."

With excellent timing, Tolliver pulled up beside me. Trying not to hurry, I climbed into the car while saying, "I'm so sorry for your loss, Ms. Roller." We sped out of the cemetery while Geneva Roller screamed at us.

"Got the money?" I asked.

"Yep. Good thing?"

"Yeah, she didn't want it to be an accident. I guess she was hoping for an A and E documentary. ‘Murder in Ashdown,' or something." I deepened my voice. " ‘The widow, however, suspected from the beginning that Farley Roller's death was a ‘not what it appeared to be,' kind of thing. Instead, all she has to blame is her stupid cat. Kind of a letdown, I guess."

"It's a lot more interesting to be the wife of a murder victim than the owner of a killer cat," Tolliver said, but I had to wonder about that.

WE'D already checked out of the Ashdown motel, so we drove straight to Sarne. Tolliver went directly to the sheriff's office, and seconds after we sat down in the chairs in front of his desk, the sheriff came in, yanking his hat off and tossing it on a table behind him.

"I hear you went to visit with Helen Hopkins yesterday," Harvey Branscom said. He bent over and switched on the intercom. "Reba, send Hollis in," he said. A squawk came back, and in a minute Hollis Boxleitner came in, carrying a mug of steaming coffee. I could smell it from my chair, but I didn't ask for any, nor did I look him in the face. Beside me, Tolliver stiffened.

"Mr. Lang, I want you to go with Deputy Boxleitner here. I'd like to talk to Miss, Ms. Connelly."

I turned to look at Tolliver, trying not to let my anxiety show on my face. He knew I would hate for him to say anything out loud. I like to keep my fears to myself. He gave me a very steady look, and I relaxed just a little. Without a word, he stood and left the room with Hollis.

"How'd you make contact with Helen?" the sheriff asked me. His face was set in harsh lines. I could see the shadow of white whiskers on his face, as though his cheeks had been frostbitten. Lack of sleep made the lines across his forehead even deeper.