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hadn’t made the distinction. Why did it take the Nebraska Numbskull to point it out to her?
    “Oh, yeah. I guess you’re right,” she said. “I’d forgotten that. But if he died of natural causes, there would be no need for a medical examiner, right?” Immediately she regretted having added ‘right?’ to her statement. As if she needed his confirmation.
    “Right,” he confirmed.
    It was getting harder and harder to decide who she was more annoyed with these days, the kid or the old lady.
    Reclining into the sofa, he rested his chubby fingers on his adolescent midriff. “Okay. So let’s back up here,” he began. “What do you really want to know exactly?”
    With some difficulty, she sublimated the urge to wring his plump neck, ultimately giving in to his perfectly practical question. “I want to know what Mark died from and whether or not he had a will.”
    “Two simple questions,” he decreed.
    “Yes. Two simple questions.”
    “What, therefore, is the simplest answer?”
    Were they teaching the Socratic method in Sunday school now? “Okay, what’s the simplest answer?”
    “Call his widow,” Harley told her, matter-of-factly.
    “Ahhhh,” she said. Of course, that was the answer, if you were not the kind of person who made stupid promises to your children. “I can’t do that.”
    “Why not?”
    “The hex thing.” Oh my god, she cringed, I’m making Harley Davidson sound like the grown-up in the room.
    He touched the tips of his fingers together and let his hands drop slowly forward, until his body language was aiming right at her. “Hexes are contrary to God’s will, Aunt Andy. The dark arts are the work of the Devil. This is exactly why I would like you to read more about the Antichrist.”
    She felt a familiar disquietude worming its way back into her life, the kind of agitation she hadn’t felt since her youngest exited the nest. Patience, she reminded herself; pubescent testosterone requires patience.
    “I don’t believe in the Antichrist, Harley. And, if I did, I doubt that Tilda would even get a Top Ten nomination. However, she is eccentric. No doubt about that. More to the point, she could be crazy. So I have promised my children that I would have no direct contact with her. Ever.”
    “They don’t want you to call her?
    “No.”
    “Okay. No problem,” he replied. “I’ll do it.”
    “ You?”
    “Why not?”
    Another remarkably astute question, she conceded, imagining the possibility. It would be like Pat Robertson calling the Wicked Witch of the West.
    “What a great idea,” she agreed, swiveling back toward her computer screen. “I’ll look up the number for her palm reading business in McAllen.” She pointed to the screen. “Here it is.”
    Swiveling back again, she handed him the cordless phone. “Okay. You’re on. What are you going to say?”
    “Don’t worry. I won’t tell her I’m related to the family,” he said.
    “That’s good. But what are you going to say?”
    Without deigning to respond, he punched in the numbers and closed his eyes. His index his finger dangled perilously over the ‘call’ button.
    OMG, he’s praying, she thought. Is he thinking about speaking to her in tongues?
    Finally, he opened his eyes and confided, “The Lord fortifies those who trust in His Name, Aunt Andy. I’m totally ready.” Then he pushed the green button.
    Along with her nephew, she could hear the ringing on the other end of the line. A woman’s voice answered. Andy closed her own eyes to steel herself, while she waited for Harley to open his mouth. But the moment the voice stopped, he pushed down the red button and put the phone back in its cradle.
    She couldn’t believe he chickened out. “Harley!”
    “The number is no longer in service,” he explained.
    “Oh. Sorry,” she muttered. “Not your fault. I guess I just wasn’t expecting she’d be gone.”
    “It’s okay. Our Lord knew.”
    “What?”
    “I’m just saying you shouldn’t be