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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.
    â€œHe’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.
    â€œHe 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.”
    â€œPatpaws,” said Geneva, smiling. I was willing to bet the lawyer wasn’t smiling.
    â€œThe cat’s bracing to leap over the tub to the open window.”
    â€œThe window was open,” Geneva said. She wasn’t smiling anymore.
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œNO!” Geneva Roller yelled, and even the lawyer looked astonished.
    â€œGeneva, this is a reasonable explanation,” Patsy Bolton began, giving her client a formidable stare, but Geneva Roller had no emotional restraints.
    â€œIt 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