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private cremation. Friends were invited to the Shelby apartment for a luncheon in her memory. In addition, the Residents’ Committee would meet in the boardroom the next afternoon to discuss a fitting tribute. All those interested were welcome to attend.
    “What a lovely service,” Maureen said, fanning herself with a program as we slowly followed the crowd up the center aisle of the chapel. “People said such nice things about Portia. I never knew she was such an activist, did you?”
    “She was on the chamber of commerce committee that raised money to buy our new squad car,” Mort said. “I remember that.”
    “She may have wanted to get involved with other community projects,” I said, “but just didn’t have the time. She took care of her mother for so many years. And Ralph kept her pretty busy managing his office and doing research for his cases.”
    “Just as well,” Seth said, shrugging off his jacket. “She had a weak heart. Too much stress might have done her in. Maybe that’s the trouble down here. Too much stress and heat.”
    “I thought retiring meant less stress,” Maureen offered.
    “Might be the opposite,” Seth said, wiping sweat from his face. “All this heat can make you crazy.”
    Just then Earl and Burl pushed passed us, barreling up the aisle, so close to each other that the stomach of one pushed into the back of the other.
    Seth raised his eyebrows at me as if to indicate that here was a case in point.
    We’d almost reached the back row when a man standing off to the side caught my attention. Arms folded, he held a baseball cap by its peak, and leaned against the wall, studying each of us as we made our way up the aisle. Younger than the others attending the funeral—except for the twins—he had the shadow of a heavy beard on his face, and was dressed in a rumpled jacket, tie askew. There was something world-weary in his expression, some combination of watchfulness, endurance, and resignation.
    “He looks like a policeman,” I said, more to myself but loud enough for Mort to hear.
    “Who does?” he asked.
    “That man over there.”
    “What makes you say that, Mrs. F?”
    “There’s a look people in law enforcement get,” I said.
    “What kind of look?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe it comes from being exposed to the worst of human frailties. It’s hard to explain, but I recognize it.”
    “Do I look that way?” Mort asked. “If you didn’t know me, would you know I was a sheriff?”
    I laughed. “I certainly wouldn’t know your title.”
    “Mrs. Fletcher! Mort!” Sam Lewis had joined the man with the baseball cap, and was waving to us. “Over here.”
    “Go ahead,” Seth said. “It’s too hot in here for me. I’ve got to get some fresh air.”
    “We’ll catch up with you outside,” Maureen said, taking his arm. “Please don’t be too long, Mort. You know me and the sun.”
    “I’d like you guys to meet my friend Zach,” Sam said when Mort and I had joined them.
    “I understand you’re friends of Mrs. Shelby’s from Maine,” Zach said. He extended his hand and I took it. He looked to be in his midforties, with dark hair and even darker eyes.
    “That’s right,” I said. “I’m Jessica Fletcher. This is Mort Metzger. He’s our sheriff back home in Cabot Cove.”
    The men shook hands. “Name’s Zach Shippee.”
    “Zach’s a detective with the Foreverglades Police Department,” Sam said. “We work together on a lot of cases.”
    A policeman! I resisted giving Mort a smug glance, but he winked at me. “I’m surprised a place as small as Foreverglades has a police department of its own,” he said to Zach.
    “We’re actually a division of the Miami-Dade Police Department. Foreverglades is in Dade County, so it falls under the MDPD’s supervision.”
    “That makes sense.”
    “Zach’s a big fan of your books, too, Mrs. Fletcher,” Sam said. “In fact, he said he’d lend me one.”
    “Actually, it’s the wife who’s the big fan,”