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promised.”
    “Right,” he said. “Positively. I shall provide nothing but attentive silence.”
    “That’s wise,” I said. “Unless you wish to confess to the Duchess that you have been summarily dismissed after one day of unpaid employment.”
    Sunny returned with a bamboo tray of three handsome crystal old-fashioned glasses containing our vodka rocks. She had put a wedge of fresh lime in each. Much appreciated. She served us, then sat in a facing barrel chair covered in a cheerful chintz.
    “Cheers,” she said, raising her glass.
    Binky hoisted his. “Here’s to our wives and sweethearts,” he said. “May they never meet.”
    I could have killed him, but Ms. Fogarty laughed. I vowed to keep my anger in check until we left. Then I intended to flay the goof alive. What a cheeky rascal he was!
    “Sunny,” I said, “thank you for seeing us on such short notice. But after Binky and I reviewed the computer printout you provided, we found something that puzzles us.”
    She leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Oh?” she said. “And what is that?”
    She was wearing loosely fitted jeans of white denim with leather sandals, and an oversized man’s shirt appliqued with golden stars, this gauzy fabric suggesting an impressive figure. I shall say no more on the subject lest I be accused of indelicacy.
    “There seems to be an unusual number of deceased sent up north for burial,” I said. “How do you account for that?”
    She accepted my direct question calmly. “Archy, all the funeral homes in South Florida do the same thing. So many of the elderly retired are down here, you know. I can’t recall the exact figures, but last year about four thousand dead were shipped from Fort Lauderdale alone. That’s more than ten a day. And for the entire State of Florida, more than twenty-five thousand deceased are exported for burial, most of them airlifted. That amounts to almost twenty percent of Florida’s total death toll.”
    “Remarkable,” I commented.
    “Downputting,” Binky said. “Definitely downputting.”
    I ignored him. “Sunny, how many out-of-state shipments would you estimate Whitcomb Funeral Homes makes annually?”
    She thought a moment. “Oh, I’d guess about three hundred a year. Perhaps a bit more.”
    “In other words, one a day on average would be a generous estimate. Is that correct?”
    “Oh yes, very generous. I doubt if we do that much.”
    Binky and I looked at each other.
    “Sunny,” I said softly. “According to the computer records you furnished, during the past six months Whitcomb Funeral Homes have shipped out almost five hundred dead.”
    She gave every indication of being astonished. “I can’t believe that!” she cried.
    “It’s true,” I said, “if the information you gave us is accurate. You may check it yourself if you doubt it.”
    “I simply can’t believe it,” she repeated and took a hurried slug of her vodka.
    “In addition,” I went on, “the overwhelming majority of those shipments went to three cities: New York, Boston, and Chicago. Can you offer any explanation for that? It does seem odd.”
    She shook her head without disturbing a hair of that glossy helmet of russet. “I can’t explain it,” she said. “Are you suggesting that our rise in income is due to a huge increase in the number of out-of-state burials we’re handling?”
    “It’s possible,” I said.
    “Incredible,” she said. “I just can’t believe it.”
    I thought the lady was lying—and amateurishly at that. It wasn’t only the thrice repeated “I can’t believe it” that alerted me; it was her manner, expressions, and her intense reactions to what I had told her. Too dramatic by half, and she hadn’t the histrionic talent to make her passion believable.
    Trust my judgment on this, since I am a consummate liar myself. I knew Ananias. Ananias was a friend of mine. And believe me, Sunny Fogarty was no Ananias.
    “Archy,” she said, “what do you think we should do next?