stopped beside a crushed-velvet sofa and faced them. “How thoughtful, Officer.” Her voice was as smooth as the short officer’s hairless dome. “But cremains are as light as a feather.”
“Cremains?” the bald cop blurted.
Bitsy fought a smile. She cast her gaze downward as if in contemplation. “There is one problem. Usually by the time the cremains are released, the family has chosen an appropriate urn.”
“What does she mean cremains?” the same cop demanded.
“But not to worry. We do have the ever-efficient double-layered brown bag. Let me check if the cremains have cooled and gone through the blender.” She stepped briskly toward the hall.
“Cremains, Hector?” the cop questioned his partner. Bitsy allowed herself a smile.
But when she turned back, her features were respectfully pious. “Gentlemen, I understand. We’re all professionals. Yet, no matter how many times our chosen paths bring us face-to-face with death, it’s difficult to think of anyone, even a stranger, as anything but brimming with life.”
“Hector,” the cop said out of the side of his mouth, “what the hell is this broad talking about?”
Hector made a shushing motion with his hand. The other hand still rested on his holster. “Ma’am, are you telling us the man we’re looking for is dead?”
Bitsy smiled patiently as her upturned palm made a semicircle. “Look around you, gentlemen. You wouldn’t exactly come here looking for a live body.”
“What we came looking for,” Hector said, “was a man, early thirties, blond, about six foot two, two hundred-ten pounds, athletic build.”
Bitsy crossed herself. “May he rest in peace.”
Hector attempted to understand. “You’re saying this man—
“The dearly departed.” She couldn’t resist.
“The dearly departed,” the cop repeated through thin lips, “was cremated?”
Bitsy raised her hands, steepled her fingers and closed her eyes. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” She opened her eyes to the men’s wonderfully confounded expressions. “Is there a problem, officers? That is the man you came here looking for, isn’t it?”
She had planned to let the “policemen” squirm until they could report to Lanie this little glitch in her plan, but the two men looked so bewildered, she didn’t have the heart to prolong their suffering. She might as well tell them now that she had caught on to her cousin and Gwen’s questionably funny Halloween prank before the men had even knocked on the front door.
“Did the APB say the suspect was dead?” The short cop demanded of his partner.
“Okay, guys, you can give it up,” Bitsy interjected. She would tell them the truth, go get Michael James or whatever his name was with his heart still steadily beating, and they could all be on their way to her cousin’s boyfriend’s costume party.
“It said possibly armed and dangerous. It didn’t say possibly armed and dead,” Hector said disgustedly. “It wouldn’t surprise me if those SFPD desk jockeys got their wires crossed and sent us out on a manhunt for a corpse.”
Bitsy felt a first frisson of doubt. “Fellas, it’s okay,” she assured them. “I know what’s going on.”
“I’m glad someone does,” Hector said. “All I know is earlier this evening, we received an all-points bulletin from the San Francisco Police Department telling us to comb the area for a fugitive possibly headed for this locale.”
The short cop snorted. “I’ll tell you exactly what’s going on. They didn’t want to send a car to claim the body. I say we FedEx this poor bum’s ashes right to the commissioner.”
“A fugitive?” Bitsy’s skepticism echoed off the dark-paneled walls. “Possibly armed and dangerous?”
The older cop huffed another disgusted breath. “Not any longer.”
Bitsy studied the two men. She slowly smiled. “You guys are good. For a moment, you almost had me believing you’re real cops.”
Hector looked down at her. “Ma’am,” he said, pointing to the patch on his shirtsleeve. “We’re members of the Canaan City Police Department.”
Bitsy stared at the colored patch, her smile dissolving. At one of the courses she’d taken on self-defense, she’d learned crimes were often committed by assailants posing as policemen. Uniforms, security badges and guns were easy to obtain. There was one way, however, to determine if someone was really a legitimate member of the police force: their uniforms would have departmental-issued patches on the upper sleeve. These patches could not be duplicated. Her gaze met Hector’s.
“You guys are real cops?”
“Ma’am, that’s what we’ve been trying to tell you.”
She didn’t wait to hear more. She turned and ran down the stairs, past the chrome and linoleum rooms, ignoring the policemen’s shouts to stop until she came to the room where the “corpse” had been. She stopped in the entryway, panting.
The room was empty.
She spun around and faced the police right behind her. “He’s gone!”
“Yes.” The short one nodded. “Dearly departed.”
She shook her head. “He’s not dead.”
Again a long, puzzled look passed between the partners. “Ma’am,” Hector began.
“Shh! Did you hear that?” Bitsy looked to the stairs. Above them was the sound of footsteps crossing the oak floor.
“Inside.” Hector pushed Bitsy into the room as both policemen drew their guns.
The footsteps continued to the stairs, down the steps, into the hall at the bottom, periodically pausing as if stopping at each room’s entrance, checking inside. The older policeman flattened himself unseen at the right side of the door, his handgun aimed at the entrance. The tall one positioned himself at the other side, pushing Bitsy behind him. Shielded by his back, she sensed his trained tautness. Her own muscles clutched with terror. The footsteps had stopped at the room next door. They started again, slow, hesitant. The policeman’s shoulders and spine were rigid, his body ready. Bitsy held her breath.
Gwen appeared in the doorway, tiny in the tall jamb. She gasped, her hand flying to the hollow of her throat. “Bitsy?”
Relief seemed to melt Bitsy’s very marrow. She started to step out from behind Hector. “Gwen, thank goodness, it’s—”
Hector pulled her roughly back behind him.
“Hey, let go!” She tried to shake his hand off her arm.
Hector’s partner stepped out from the wall. Gwen, her features frozen with fear, looked from one pointed gun to the other.
“Bitsy?” Her voice was thin,
