Supplies. Valium for Teddy. I don’t know what else … expenses.”
“Done.” She extended her hand, and as Nick cautiously reached for it she added, “There is one small condition, Dr. Polchak, and this is not negotiable. I want to work with you. I want to be there every step of the way.”
Nick pulled back, and Teddy buried his face in his hands.
“That’s entirely out of the question.”
“It’s not negotiable,” Kathryn repeated. “I’m not a fool, Dr. Polchak. Twenty thousand dollars is a great deal of money. What am I supposed to think if you report back in two weeks and say, ‘Sorry, I found nothing’? I want to see what you do. I want to know that nothing was overlooked. I want to know that if we find nothing, it won’t be because we didn’t look hard enough. I want to know.”
After another full minute, Nick spoke again. “The investigation will take a full week, perhaps two. And if what you say is true—if the body is already on its way to a funeral home—then we have to begin immediately. That means right now.”
Kathryn extended her hand again. As Nick took it, he said, “I have one condition of my own, Mrs. Guilford. If you’re going to work with me, it has to be—as you said—every step of the way.”
“Agreed.”
“Mrs. Guilford,” he said, smiling, “you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
The interior of Dr. Polchak’s crumbling Dodge Dart was even worse than Kathryn had imagined. The brittle vinyl seats were split apart in sharp ridges, and the dashboard was a canyon of cracked ravines and gullies with rivers of dusty foam flowing beneath. Above her head the roof liner draped and sagged. Below, the floorboard was pockmarked with rust holes that allowed her a more than adequate view of the pavement streaking by beneath her feet. She sat rigidly, legs apart, straddling the cratered floorboard as if it were an open bomb-bay door.
“Watch your skirt,” Nick said with a sideways glance. “I’d rather you didn’t get that sodium azide powder all over my upholstery.”
“What upholstery?”
“I like to take care of my car. For example, I try to keep beech trees out of my engine.” He glanced at her again. “Care to tell me what happened back there?”
“No.” She pointed up ahead. “Schroeder’s is on the left at the next corner. If you don’t mind, park on the street.”
“There are hundreds of unexplained traffic fatalities every year,” Nick said. “No heart attack, no stroke—for some reason the driver just swerved off the road. Some experts—like me—think the answer may be insects. A bug flies in the window, the driver panics, there’s an accident.” He looked at Kathryn. “Entomophobia is one of the more common irrational fears, Mrs. Guilford.”
Kathryn glared straight ahead. “You’re just a bushel full of interesting information, aren’t you?”
Nick stopped the car and pulled up on the emergency brake, which moved without a sound. “I don’t think it’s actually attached to anything,” he said. He turned to the backseat, grabbed a large canvas knapsack and then paused, eyeing the two black-and-gold hats resting side-by-side in the rear window.
“This one,” he said, pulling it on tight. “I think this might be a job for a pirate.”
Great, Kathryn thought. Just the final fashion touch he needed.
“No offense”—she looked him over quickly—“but I wish you had changed.”
“I wish I had a dollar for every time a woman told me that.”
Schroeder’s Funeral Home was a landmark in the town of Rayford. For decades it had been known as the Lampiers’ Home, the largest private residence in Holcum County. It was still remembered that way by most of the older residents of Rayford. With its white beveled siding, long black shutters, and green-and-white canvas awnings, it had the perfect image for its current function. Mr. Schroeder simply added the embellishments of his trade: the chapel, the garage, and the
“Done.” She extended her hand, and as Nick cautiously reached for it she added, “There is one small condition, Dr. Polchak, and this is not negotiable. I want to work with you. I want to be there every step of the way.”
Nick pulled back, and Teddy buried his face in his hands.
“That’s entirely out of the question.”
“It’s not negotiable,” Kathryn repeated. “I’m not a fool, Dr. Polchak. Twenty thousand dollars is a great deal of money. What am I supposed to think if you report back in two weeks and say, ‘Sorry, I found nothing’? I want to see what you do. I want to know that nothing was overlooked. I want to know that if we find nothing, it won’t be because we didn’t look hard enough. I want to know.”
After another full minute, Nick spoke again. “The investigation will take a full week, perhaps two. And if what you say is true—if the body is already on its way to a funeral home—then we have to begin immediately. That means right now.”
Kathryn extended her hand again. As Nick took it, he said, “I have one condition of my own, Mrs. Guilford. If you’re going to work with me, it has to be—as you said—every step of the way.”
“Agreed.”
“Mrs. Guilford,” he said, smiling, “you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
The interior of Dr. Polchak’s crumbling Dodge Dart was even worse than Kathryn had imagined. The brittle vinyl seats were split apart in sharp ridges, and the dashboard was a canyon of cracked ravines and gullies with rivers of dusty foam flowing beneath. Above her head the roof liner draped and sagged. Below, the floorboard was pockmarked with rust holes that allowed her a more than adequate view of the pavement streaking by beneath her feet. She sat rigidly, legs apart, straddling the cratered floorboard as if it were an open bomb-bay door.
“Watch your skirt,” Nick said with a sideways glance. “I’d rather you didn’t get that sodium azide powder all over my upholstery.”
“What upholstery?”
“I like to take care of my car. For example, I try to keep beech trees out of my engine.” He glanced at her again. “Care to tell me what happened back there?”
“No.” She pointed up ahead. “Schroeder’s is on the left at the next corner. If you don’t mind, park on the street.”
“There are hundreds of unexplained traffic fatalities every year,” Nick said. “No heart attack, no stroke—for some reason the driver just swerved off the road. Some experts—like me—think the answer may be insects. A bug flies in the window, the driver panics, there’s an accident.” He looked at Kathryn. “Entomophobia is one of the more common irrational fears, Mrs. Guilford.”
Kathryn glared straight ahead. “You’re just a bushel full of interesting information, aren’t you?”
Nick stopped the car and pulled up on the emergency brake, which moved without a sound. “I don’t think it’s actually attached to anything,” he said. He turned to the backseat, grabbed a large canvas knapsack and then paused, eyeing the two black-and-gold hats resting side-by-side in the rear window.
“This one,” he said, pulling it on tight. “I think this might be a job for a pirate.”
Great, Kathryn thought. Just the final fashion touch he needed.
“No offense”—she looked him over quickly—“but I wish you had changed.”
“I wish I had a dollar for every time a woman told me that.”
Schroeder’s Funeral Home was a landmark in the town of Rayford. For decades it had been known as the Lampiers’ Home, the largest private residence in Holcum County. It was still remembered that way by most of the older residents of Rayford. With its white beveled siding, long black shutters, and green-and-white canvas awnings, it had the perfect image for its current function. Mr. Schroeder simply added the embellishments of his trade: the chapel, the garage, and the
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