Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 120722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 604(@200wpm)___ 483(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120722 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 604(@200wpm)___ 483(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Mrs. Horne appears to feel none of those things. I might as well be asking about her car’s extended warranty for all the interest and care she’s showing. Again, not unseen but definitely unusual.
“The death certificate?” I ask again.
“Oh, yeah, here you go.” She pulls a piece of folded paper from between her boobs and hands it across the desk. I do not want to touch boob paper. There’s bound to be sweat, germs, and funk on it.
But I don’t keep tongs or gloves in my desk, having never needed them before. I take the paper reluctantly and spread it out on the desk, promising myself a nice, long handwash with hot water, loads of soap, and some gel hand cleanser.
I peruse the typed information in the upper fields, making sure that I’ve spelled everything correctly on my own computerized form. Everything’s good, and it’s not until I get to the bottom of the form that my own heart races.
It’s signed by Zoey Walker.
Forgetting all about the boob sweat, I trace the lines of her loopy, tightly knit handwriting and smile, which is completely inappropriate when I’m sitting across from a widow, but the fact that her name has come up again seems like a good omen after my conversation with Trey this morning.
If nothing else, it’ll be a good opener on why I’m calling . . . funny story, I met someone we have in common today.
Oh, wait, then she’ll ask who and I’ll have to say ‘a widow who gave me a Zoey Walker autographed death certificate.’ That’s not so much a funny story as a fiery red flag of caution.
Mrs. Horne’s next question ends my mental trip back into Zoey’s life. “Do you need my bank account information too? So you can transfer the money?”
“Uh, excuse me?”
“The money?” Mrs. Horne says. “How do I get the money today?”
My brows knit together. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Horne, but it’s not quite that simple. I’ll file the claim, they’ll do their investigation, and then once it’s ruled in compliance with the terms of the policy, the payment will be made as set forth in the beneficiary section.”
Mrs. Horne’s eyes narrow, and for the first time I see emotion in her face. And it’s not a nice one, either. “You mean I don’t get my money today? I have to wait even longer?”
Damn. So much for the lost and hurting widow. Mrs. Horne’s acting like planting her husband in the ground was planting a money tree. And it’s time to harvest, dammit. “I’m afraid not. But we’ll do everything we can to process the claim quickly and painlessly.”
“Not quick enough,” she says in a huff, a note of whine entering her voice. “I’ve been waiting forever.”
I glance down at the date of death to see that it’s mere days ago despite the eons Mrs. Horne makes it sound like, but I’m trying to give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe Dick Horne lived up to his name and was a terrible husband and she counts those suffering years or something. “Of course, loss can make the days seem extraordinarily long. I’ll do my best.”
“Just hurry. Call me when it’s done.”
Do I look like Amazon or something? Next day delivery with a Prime policy? Either way, in Yvette Horne’s mind, the meeting is over. She stands, and I follow, offering her a hand. She shakes like a limp noodle who expects her hand to be kissed, but she’s no queen. Queen Liz definitely doesn’t keep letters of knighthood or whatever tucked in her cleavage.
Once she’s gone, I go back to my desk, sitting down and rubbing my forehead. It’s only after I get the third circle done on my temple that I remember where my fingers have been, and I groan.
Well, not everything’s bad. Sure, I’ve got some more paperwork to do, and just out of habit, I’ll give the home office a call. After that, I’ll call Zoey. I can use this paperwork as an excuse for an actual date.
But first a hand wash . . . and a face wash.
Chapter 8
Zoey
The skillet on my stove sings merrily, little pops and crackles as the vegetables and butter I put in there a few minutes ago start to absorb the heat and cook. On my cutting board, I’ve got the freshly-cooked chicken ready for a slice and dice.
It’s all from my subscription box, a mix of regular food and organic farmer’s market stuff that costs a pretty penny. But it’s an indulgence I love, mainly because now I don’t need to go to the grocery store and deal with the odd looks and talk that’s not even behind my back anymore.
I just got tired of stopping by the meat section and getting bullshit like Hey, DDG! A little steak tartare on the menu tonight? or another witticism, Killing cows so you don’t kill anyone else?