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teeth are all strange.”
    A body that had been in a closed-up house in Missouri for – how long? Deteriorated was probably a euphemistic way to put it. Strange teeth was a puzzler, and a big hole had ominous implications. Making this a picture of an older woman climbing into the tub for a peaceful passing into eternity was getting harder to do.
    I didn’t say I told you so about the dead body to Tasha, but I was thinking it. Along with, The next time a little old lady tells you there’s a body in the tub, you’ll believe her, won’t you? What I said was, “Does he need a doctor?”
    “No, it’s happened before. Gruesome things really get to him. Remember that old G odfather movie ? He went out like a light when he saw the dead horse’s head. He’ll be okay in a few minutes. But I think we should get him out of here so he won’t look in the bathtub again when he comes to.”
    “Good idea.”
    She got one arm and I, carefully avoiding looking in the tub myself, grabbed the other. The arms were limp and floppy, but moving Muscle-Man was one of those easier-said-than-done activities.
    “How much does he weigh?” I muttered. Dragging the motorhome might be easier. At least it had wheels.
    “Two-forty-five. Only eight percent body fat. But he’s very sensitive,” Tasha repeated.
    High sensitivity and low percentage of body fat didn’t make him any easier to drag out of the bathroom. After considerable grunting and tugging, we finally got most of him out in the hallway. His flip-flops had come off in the process. His toes, though still muscular, looked oddly vulnerable now, and he still hadn’t regained consciousness.
    “I’m sorry we didn’t believe you,” Tasha said.
    “It was nice of you both to come help anyway. You might make use of that scream if you ever need one for an acting part. It was a real goose-bumper.”
    “Really?” Her blue eyes brightened. “I’ll remember that. Thank you.”
    Hopefully she wouldn’t decide to practice it here on Madison Street. There hadn’t been any sirens – or maybe it was just that the scream had numbed my ears to siren sounds - but now I heard a vehicle outside.
    “I’d better go down and talk to the police,” I said. “Don’t touch anything.” Rather tardy advice, of course, considering that we’d more or less mopped the floor with Eric.
    Going down the stairs, I wished my friend Matt Dixon, who was a detective on the police force the first time I got involved in a murder, was still here. But he was now a Special Agent with the FBI, and he and his wife Haley lived down in Arkansas.
    I went out the back door expecting to see a police car and officers, but what I saw was another motorhome in the driveway behind mine. A familiar motorhome. And getting out of it – Mac!
    I was so glad to see him. I wanted to run and throw my arms around him. But his stiff shoulders as he strode toward me instead had me saying, “What’re you doing here? I thought you were off to Montana to look for ghost prospectors.”
    “I decided to stop in here along the way.”
    He spoke as if it were like a pit stop for a burger and fries, but a straight line from central California to western Montana does not run through Missouri. He’d taken something like a fifteen-hundred or more mile detour to get here.
    A police car started to turn in behind Mac, but the driveway was already full of motorhomes, plus the little Toyota pickup Mac pulls behind the motorhome when he’s traveling. The officer at the wheel parked the police car at an angle on the dry grass. One middle-aged male officer and one sturdy woman officer, both in dark sunglasses, got out. He was bald; she had red hair sculpted into a bun tight enough to do a face lift. Except she was much too young to need one.
    “A report came in that there’s a dead body in the house at this address,” the man said.
    “The body is in the bathtub upstairs.” I waved in that general direction. “There are a couple of people up