Certainly Marybeth had welcomed him home and was pleased he was getting to all of the neglected projects, but Joe could feel tension building between them. Marybeth ran the house and family, and she did a good job of both. She had become used to him not being around. Joe’s presence, especially since he was at home during the day, disrupted her management and routine. He sympathized with her and found himself feeling sorry for himself as well. Joe didn’t like being inside so much.

Although the home they owned on the quiet residential street in Saddlestring was much more conventional and convenient for Marybeth’s business and the girls’ school and activities, Joe still pined for past houses in the country. He’d even mentioned to Marybeth when they pulled into the driveway from Billings that it seemed the neighboring houses on each side had somehow encroached a few feet closer to theirs. This was not the first time he’d had this impression, and it made him doubt his sanity.

After he turned off the water to the toilet so he could reset the float to make it stop trickling constantly, Joe parted the curtain and checked to see if his neighbor, Ed Nedney, was still out in his yard. He was. He was out there reseeding a one-foot patch of slightly bare earth in his backyard with a rake so it would grow to be as perfect as the rest of his yard. Nedney was a former town administrator who’d retired solely, Joe believed, to keep his lawn and home immaculate and because it gave him more time to disapprove of Joe’s home maintenance regimen.

Joe had watched Nedney through the window all morning while he himself was on the phone making arrangements for his father’s body with a Billings funeral home. He didn’t look forward to discussing the costs with Marybeth later that night. Marybeth’s business transition was facing hurdles now that the downturn in the economy had finally reached Wyoming. The buyers were slowing down the process and making noises about pulling out of the sale. Since the sale had been negotiated, half of her retail clients had either closed shop or taken their financial management in-house to save money. Marybeth had laid off two of her four employees and was in the process of prospecting for more clients while running her office on a day-to-day basis. Because the state had frozen salaries, including Joe’s, money was tight.

In a calming and well-practiced baritone, the funeral home director had explained the costs and options for cremation and urns.

The cremation alone would cost $1,835. Joe contained his alarm.

He told Joe, “Our charge for a direct cremation (without ceremony) includes basic services of funeral director and staff, a proportionate share of overhead costs, removal of remains, necessary authorizations, minimum container, minimum urn, and cremation. Another option that has proven very meaningful to families is to have a traditional service followed by cremation. The cost for this type of service is three thousand nine hundred fifty dollars.”

Joe wondered if it would be bad form to ask how the cost compared with that of a burial, but assumed a burial would cost more. Plus, he couldn’t ask his girls and wife to attend the funeral for a man they’d never met. Meaning it would be a burial with one mourner-him. Cremation was the only option.

“That’s kind of expensive,” Joe said. “We can do the cremation, but it’s more than I thought it would be.”

“The process must be thorough to maintain dignity,” the funeral director said in a well-practiced response. “Now we should talk about an urn.”

“Okay.”

Joe thought of his father’s last laugh. Now he thought he knew what it was about.

“If an individual weighs one hundred eighty pounds at the time of cremation, they will require an urn one hundred eighty cubic inches or larger,” the man said. “Do you know the weight of your loved one?”

Joe said, “I’d guess one-sixty.”

He could hear the funeral director tapping on computer keys. “You have many, many choices of urns,” he said. “Many people these days like to purchase an urn that would mean something to the departed. We have urns available from forty-five dollars to five thousand, so it would help if you could give me the parameters of your budget.”

Joe hadn’t thought about budgeting the funeral. He thought, How much is he worth to me, this man who walked out on our family so many years ago and never even bothered to make contact with his wife or sons?Then, ashamed of his conclusion, he said, “We don’t want to make a big deal of it. Simple is best.” By simple, he meant cheap.

“Very well,” the man said. “Maybe I can help you make a decision. As I mentioned, the trend is toward themed urns. Did your father like to golf? We have golf urns ranging from fifty dollars to two thousand dollars. Fishing? Fishing urns are very popular here in Billings, as you might guess. We have fishing urns in metal, ceramic, glass, and biodegradable. Did your father like to fish?”

“No.”

“And we have cowboy boot urns, another popular choice in Montana and Wyoming. Hunting urns as well. Did your father like to hunt?”

Said Joe, “My father liked to drink. Do you have urns resembling a bottle of gin or Old Grand-Dad bourbon? Or maybe one shaped like a suitcase? He was fond of packing up and leaving.”

The funeral director paused for a few beats before he said, “You are kidding, aren’t you?”

“Sort of.”

With excess pomposity, the funeral director said, “We laugh so that we will not cry.”

“Yup, we do,” Joe said, and ordered a simple ceramic urn for $100 and the funeral director promised to FedEx the remains to Saddlestring within a day.

When the toilet was fixed, Joe called Sheriff Baird in Carbon County. He wasn’t in his office, but the dispatcher said, “Oh, it’s you” and patched Joe through to Baird’s county pickup. From the first word, Joe knew McLanahan’s version of events was accurate.

“It’s the fabulist,” Baird said.

“I’m not sure what to say to that, sheriff.”

“Don’t say anything. When you start talking, it costs me too much damned money and time.”

“The Grim Brothers must have covered their tracks,” Joe said. “They knew you’d be looking for them, I guess.”

“Then they did a hell of a good job, because my team couldn’t confirm a single thing you said. Do you know how much it costs to mount an eleven-person search-and-rescue team and outfit them for the mountains? Do you have any idea?”

Joe looked out the window. Ed Nedney was standing on the dividing line between his perfect lawn and Joe’s matted and leaf-strewn grass. Nedney was shaking his head and puffing on his pipe.

“I’d guess quite a bit,” Joe said.

“Damn straight. Plus, I had to personally call the parents of Diane Shober and tell them their daughter wasn’t found. That was not a pleasant experience.”

Joe felt his neck get hot. “I never claimed I saw her. You must have put that out.”

“Yeah, stupid me,” Baird said. “I believed what you told me. I’m spending way too much time trying to defend your story. The state even sent a man to interview me this morning.”

Joe felt a twinge in his belly. “What do you mean, the state?”

“DCI. They sent an agent over here to ask me questions about your statement, even though he had a copy of it with him.”

“What was his name?”

“I don’t know, McQueen or something. He didn’t give me a card.”

“Was it McCue?” Joe asked, leaning into the phone. “Bobby McCue?”

“Yeah, that’s him. An odd duck. I don’t like the state looking over my shoulder.”

Joe shook his head. “He came to talk to me in the hospital. Same guy. I can’t figure out what his game is or who he’s really with.”

Baird snorted. “That’s all I need is some damned rogue investigator running around down here. Maybe I’ll have to sic the FBI on him.”

“The FBI?”