Queen Anne sofas and love seats filled every inter-columnar space. Beside each, mahogany tables held silk flowers and Kleenex boxes.
Potted palms flanked closed double doors to my right and left. A grandfather clock stood sentry at the far end of the corridor, its slow, steady ticking the only sound in the crushing stillness.
“Hello?” I called out softly.
No one answered. No one appeared.
I tried again, slightly louder.
Gramps tocked on.
“Anyone here?”
It was my morning for ticking clocks.
I was considering “arrangements” versus “reception” when my cell phone shrilled. I jumped and then looked around, hoping my skittishness hadn’t been noticed. Seeing no one, I scurried out to the foyer, and clicked on.
“Yes,” I hissed.
“Yo.”
My eyes did a full orbital roll. Had the man never learned to say “hello”?
“Yes?” I hissed again.
“You in church or something?” Slidell sounded like he was working on one of his ubiquitous Snickers.
“Something.”
“Where the hell are you?”
“At a funeral. Why are you calling?”
There was a pause while Slidell mulled that over.
“Doc Larabee asked me to give you a shout. Said he had feedback from the Questioned Documents section, figured you’d want to know.”
For a moment my mind didn’t link over.
“The note you and Doc found in Aiker’s shorts?”
I didn’t bother to point out the note’s correct provenance.
“Doc said to tell you that you were right about Columbia,” Slidell said.
Irrationally, I turned my back to the hallway entrance, as though dead Mr. Maples might pose an eavesdropping threat.
“The writer of the note was going to Columbia?”
“Looks that way. QD guys used some sort of voodoo light, managed to bring out a few of the missing letters.”
“Anything else?”
A door slammed in the vicinity of the chapel or garage. I cracked the entrance door and peeked out. No one was in sight.
“The only other word they could make out was ‘cousins.’”
My brain sparked like an electrical short.
It was like being slapped awake.
A short, muscular man with thick black hair. A FWS agent who knew nothing about bear poaching.
Palmer Cousins.
Slidell was talking, but I didn’t hear him. I was flashing back to a conversation with Ryan. The privy remains were found on Tuesday. The Grim Reaper began his photo stalking on Wednesday.
Palmer Cousins was at the Foote farm that Saturday. He knew what Boyd had found.
Had Cousins placed the squirrel on my car? Was it another Grim Reaper threat? Was he following me? Did he have Katy? Would he hurt her to get at me?
My heart was pounding, my palm sweaty against the phone.
“I’ll call you later,” I said.
Slidell sputtered.
I cut him off.
Hands trembling, I jammed the phone into my purse and pushed through the front door.
And slammed into a chest like concrete.
The man was about my height, dressed in ebony pinstripes and a dazzling white shirt.
