"1969," I say.

"Jimmy loved the Doors. This one was his favorite—he gave it to me for my birthday." Janet studies the band's photograph on the cover and asks, "How old was Morrison when he died?"

You bet I know the answer. "Twenty-seven."

"Jimmy told me where it happened, but I forgot."

"In a bathtub."

Janet busts out with a laugh. "No, I meant where, like what city."

Now we're both laughing. "Paris," I say.

Janet gathers herself. "I remember now. My brother went to see the grave. Listen, I better get rolling before they light the bonfire, or whatever."

"You're putting the album in the coffin?"

"Yeah." Sheepishly she slips it back into the bag. "I mean, I've got to do something.Cleo won't ever know."

"Janet, don't you think you should tell somebody about what we saw. Maybe it's not too late to—"

"I don't know." She shrugs drearily. "I don't know anything except Jimmy's gone." And off she goes, peeling rubber.

Moments later I'm in a phone booth talking to my friend Pete, a forensic pathologist at the county Medical Examiner's Office. When I tell him about James Bradley Stomarti's lack of autopsy stitches, he gives a sour chuckle.

"Whenever there's a death in a foreign country, it's dicey. The protocol drives you nuts—plus everybody wants to be so damn polite about the cutting."

"What do I do?"

"Try to stop the cremation," he suggests. "You could get a court order, but for that you'll need immediate family."

"How about a sister?"

"Perfect. But she's gotta call the State Attorney's Office and get them to find a judge. Then the judge needs to send a deputy out to the funeral parlor right away, because once your boy goes into the oven—"

"Adios."

"That's right, Jack. Case closed."

Next I try Rick Tarkington, a state prosecutor who once helped me on a story about a mob murder in exchange for tickets to a Springsteen concert. Being a rock fan, he'll probably remember Jimmy and the Slut Puppies.

Unfortunately, Rick's surly and unhelpful secretary says he's in depositions and cannot be interrupted.

"It's an emergency," I plead. "Can't you give him a message?"

"Not today, sir. I'm leaving early for a doctor's 'pointment."

"Oh? Something serious, I hope."

Janet Thrush is my only chance. The battered Miata is still parked in the lot when I return to the funeral home. After a quick search I find her among the mourners at an open-casket viewing in one of the lavender-scented chapels. According to the remembrance cards being distributed at the door, the deceased is Eugene Marvin Brandt, who was born in 1918.

Janet is quite a standout in her tube top, poised beside a spray of gladiolus and tulips. She's chatting with a spry-looking elderly woman dressed in widow black.

"Gertie, this is Jack," Janet says. "Jack, this is Mrs. Gertie Brandt. Gene's wife."

Gene?

"Nice of you to come." Gertie shakes my hand. She is dry-eyed and composed, leading me to conclude that her husband had been ill for some time, and that his death might have been a blessing. Either that or he was a miserable jerk and she's glad to be rid of him.

Gertie asks, "How do you know my Gene?"

"Professionally," I say. "It was years ago, but he made quite an impression."

Gertie smiles fondly. "He always does." She gestures toward the coffin. "Did you see him? They did a wonderful job."

"He looks real peaceful," Janet chimes in. "And handsome, too," she adds with a wink.

Gertie beams. "Go on, Jack. Have a look."

So, like a moron, I'm standing here admiring a dead stranger. It would appear that Eugene Marvin Brandt is heading for the pearly gates in his favorite golf ensemble, including spikes. Janet appears at my side and squeezes my arm.

"You're a good sport," she whispers.

"And you are one twisted sister."

"I didn't want to be alone."

"So you crash a viewing?"

"Everyone's been so nice," she says. "What a sweet-looking man, no?"

With her chin Janet points at the eternally recumbent Mr. Brandt. "Guess what he did for a living!"

"We need to talk."

"Catheters. He sold them."

"That would have been my second guess."

"And other medical supplies," Janet adds.

This room, too, is rapidly emptying of oxygen. I take an audible gulp and clutch the rim of the coffin.

"Cancer," says Janet Thrush. "Case you were wondering."

"Can we go now?"

"Cancer of the prostrate."

"Prostate."My voice is raspy and ancient. I'm wondering if it's medically possible to choke to death on the scent of stale flowers.

Janet says, "Once I had a noodle cut out of my armpit."

"A nodule, you mean."

"Whatever. Main thing, it was benign. But still it freaked me out—somethin' growing in my armpit!"

Her words are spiraling down a long gray tunnel. Any second now, I'll be fainting. No joke, I'm going to pitch face-forward into the casket of a dead catheter salesman wearing golf spikes.

"Jack, you don't look so hot."

Firmly Janet steers me out the door, into the fresh air. We sit on the grass under a black olive tree near a small stagnant pond. Slowly I lie back and squeeze my eyelids shut. Two stiffs in one day, Sweet Jesus!

A breeze springs up and I proceed to drift off for an hour, maybe longer. The next thing I know, a cold soda can is being pressed into my right hand. I raise up and take a sip and my eyes tear up from the carbonation. Janet is next to me, sitting cross-legged. Folded in her lap is the white paper shopping bag, now empty.

"You did it," I say, pointing at the bag.

"What?"

"The Soft Parade.Somewhere Jimmy is smiling, I'm sure."

Touching two fingertips to my forehead, Janet says, "Jeez, you're in a cold sweat."

"I'm a wimp," I admit. "The sight of poor old Gene did me in. Gene, all decked out for the eternal dogleg."

"Drink the Coke. You'll feel better."

And soon I do. Taking her by the hand, I lead her back toward the funeral home. "Listen, I checked it out. As Jimmy's sister you can stop the cremation. We'll get a court order," I tell her. "You're a blood relative. You can demand a proper autopsy."

"No, Jack—" Janet, pulling free as we enter the front door.

"Meanwhile we've got to put the fear of Almighty God into young Ellis. Scare him into thinking you're going to sue his ass off if he goes ahead with it today—"

"No," Janet says again. She looks sad and exhausted, holding the empty shopping bag to her breasts. "Jack, it's too late."

"What are you talking about?"

"When you fell asleep, I went inside. Back to that room," she says. "He's gone. It's too late."

"Goddammit."

"I know."

I sag against a planter featuring a lovely plastic rhododendron.

"But what about the album? I thought you put it in with—"

"Too late. So I threw it in the pond—it was a stupid idea, anyway," Janet says. "I mean, the record's vinyl. All it's gonna do is melt all over his damn bones."

I'm thinking Jimmy wouldn't mind.

"Come on," she says, sniffling. "Let's get outta here."

"In a minute."

I see oily-fingered Ellis alone in his cubicle, intently tapping on a portable calculator. Janet hangs back while I peer in the doorway.

Ellis quickly turns his head sideways while simultaneously swiveling his chair toward the wall. "Can I help you?" he squeaks over his shoulder.

"Nice earring, dickhead. But it looked better on Mr. Stomarti."

Ellis claps one hand over his right ear in a futile effort to conceal the stolen diamond.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" he yelps. "Doesn't anybody ever knock anymore!"