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me drive. Our first funeral was for Joan Clayton. She was only two years older than me when she died of ovarian cancer. There was a large photo of her next to the open coffin at Marker & Family Funeral Home. In the photo she was still in full bloom. It had probably been taken several years ago. Her cheeks were peach plump; the emaciated body in the coffin looked like a cheap impostor.
    â€œHow tall do you think she was?” Blue whispered in my ear. All business.
    â€œI don’t know. But she doesn’t look anything like you or me. Before or after,” I said. “This won’t work.”
    A mourner approached. He looked like he might be Joan’s father.
    â€œI don’t believe we’ve met,” the maybe father said.
    â€œSo sorry for your loss,” Blue said.
    â€œDid you know my Joan?”
    â€œIndeed, I did,” said Blue.
    â€œFrom school?”
    â€œYes. From school.”
    â€œI thought I met all of Joan’s school friends.”
    â€œWe were more acquaintances,” said Blue. “But I wanted to pay my respects.”
    â€œGrover Cleveland or Van Buren?” the father asked.
    â€œCleveland,” Blue guessed, losing her conviction.
    â€œWhen did you leave Houston?” he asked.
    â€œA few years ago,” Blue said, realizing she had to quickly shut down the conversation.
    â€œDid you know Jacob?”
    â€œNo. I’m afraid we never met. I’ll leave you to your family,” said Blue, slowly backing away. “And I am so sorry for your loss.”
    Blue turned around and began walking down the aisle and out the door. I was right behind her.
    â€œThat was close,” I said on the way home.
    â€œAs long as we don’t go back to the same funeral home twice, there shouldn’t be a problem.”
    T HE NEXT funeral was Laura Cartwright’s. She was twenty-eight when she committed suicide. She was just two years younger than me. According to the obituary she left behind a mother, a father, and a husband. No children. She only had about twenty or so mourners at Hammel & Sons funeral home. There was a picture of Laura next to the coffin. She was blond and blue-eyed, like Blue, but so plump—obese, really—that her features were hard to distinguish.
    Blue and I regarded the plus-sized woman in the coffin.
    â€œNo bullet wound, and her neck looks fine. Probably pills,” said Blue.
    â€œI guess.”
    â€œI could be her in no time,” said Blue, “if I started off my day with half a dozen doughnuts.”
    â€œYou’d need to devour an entire doughnut factory,” I said.
    A man approached and stood next to us.
    â€œWere you friends?” he asked.
    â€œYes,” Blue said. “Although I hadn’t seen her in years. Were you close?”
    â€œYou could say that,” the man said. “We were married.”
    â€œMy condolences,” I said.
    â€œThank you. I should have seen it coming. But she acted like everything was fine.”
    When the man spoke, I felt a sick shiver up my spine. Something wasn’t right.
    â€œShe wasn’t depressed?” I asked.
    â€œI didn’t think so,” Mr. Cartwright said. “But she must have been. We were trying to have a baby. It wasn’t working out.”
    â€œShe looks so unblemished. Pills?” I said.
    Blue squeezed my elbow in warning, but Mr. Cartwright seemed warmed by my interest.
    â€œShe put antifreeze in her lemonade.”
    â€œOh my. That is terrible. She was so young. How did you meet?” I said.
    â€œAt a bar. She was the prettiest woman in there. Put on a few pounds since then,” he said dryly.
    â€œHow long were you married?” I asked.
    Blue pinched my arm again. Harder.
    â€œFive years. What’s your name again?”
    â€œJane Green,” I said. No point in getting Amelia Keen mixed up in this.
    â€œAnd how did you know Laura?”
    â€œElementary school.”
    â€œAnd