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and these days she’s tooling around in an old BMW.”
    “A BMW’s not so bad.”
    Hurley scoffs. “Not to you. You drive a used hearse.”
    This is true. The hearse was the only thing I could afford right away after totaling my car, and before I knew David was going to give me any insurance money. I have to admit it took a bit of getting used to at first, but I’ve grown to like the thing. It runs well and has plenty of room. Plus, despite being nearly twenty years old, it has relatively low mileage. There is the issue of a lingering chemical smell I can detect when it’s humid, but Hoover is in dog-sniffing heaven whenever he rides in the back. Also, I like the car’s midnight-blue color; it complements my eyes.
    “Anyway,” Hurley goes on, “I think Catherine had plans to make Jack Allen her next sugar daddy.”
    “Except they weren’t married. So how would killing Jack now benefit Catherine?”
    “I suspect marriage may have been part of her original plan, but what if Jack did keep his winnings in his house? So far, we can’t find any bank or investment accounts in his name to indicate otherwise—just one checking account, which has about twenty grand in it. If Catherine found out about Jack’s stash, she wouldn’t have to wait to marry him. All she’d have to do is steal the money and run.”
    “Then why kill Jack at all? Why not just take the money and head for South America or something?”
    “Because Jack would know who did it and could report her to the police. By killing Jack and trying to make it look like an accident, Catherine might be able to get away clean with the money and not have to hide from the authorities for the rest of her life.”
    “Smart,” I admit begrudgingly. “So this Albright woman might be both a serial marrier and a serial murderer.”
    “It’s possible.” There is a long moment of silence; then Hurley says, “Speaking of marriage, how does it feel to be single again?”
    “Fine, I guess.”
    “You guess?”
    I ponder the question seriously for a moment before answering. “To be honest, I’m relieved to have it all over and done with. I finally have some financial security, and David has found himself a new hussy to take my place. But I’m also a little saddened by it. Not because of David, per se—I’m long over him. But the whole thing seemed so . . . I don’t know . . . anticlimactic. I never even saw David to say, ‘Good-bye,’ or ‘It was great,’ or ‘Screw you for screwing someone else.’ One minute I’m married, and then I sign a few forms and I’m not. Seven years of my life wiped away with little to no ceremony. It’s definitely not the future I saw for myself. And now everyone looks at me with this pathetic expression on their faces.” I sigh. “Sometimes I wish David had died so I could be a widow instead of a divorcée. It has much more panache, and you get sympathy instead of pity.”
    I glance over at Hurley to see if he’s shocked by this revelation, because I have to admit I’m a little shocked at myself for thinking it. But if he’s surprised by the black thoughts that cross my mind from time to time, his expression doesn’t show it.
    “Are you going to change back to your maiden name?” he asks me, smoothly segueing to a topic only slightly less volatile.
    “Nah, I kind of like Winston. Besides, my mother changed her name every time she married and then changed it back again with each divorce. Fast-forward four marriages later, and you have Jane Elizabeth Odegard Fjell Odegard Nyland Odegard Carlisle Odegard Pulley. Even without the maiden name reverts, it reads like a roll call for the character Sybil. And, anyway, very few people know how to pronounce ‘Fjell.’ Most attempts sound like someone trying to spit out a loogie.”
    “And you have such a unique first name to go with it,” Hurley says, reminding me that he now knows one of my best-kept secrets. “Whose idea was it to name you ‘Matterhorn’?”
    “My