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I just can’t understand that volume of out-of-state burials.”
    “Hey!” my acolyte said brightly. “I think I’ve got it! Maybe there’s a serial killer on the loose knocking off scads of people.”
    “All of whom come from New York, Boston, and Chicago,” I said disdainfully. “Binky, Sunny has already informed my father and me that there has been no unusual rise in Florida’s mortality rate, and no other funeral homes have had the income increase that Whitcomb has enjoyed.”
    “Oh,” he said.
    I turned back to our hostess. “As for what we should do next, I’d like to get the names and addresses of the out-of-state funeral homes or cemeteries to which Whitcomb’s shipments were sent.”
    She stared at me. “Archy, I gave you that. It was all on the computer printout.”
    “No, ma’am,” I said gently, “it wasn’t. Names and addresses of Florida cemeteries were noted, but out-of-state shipments were merely listed as being delivered to airports in New York, Boston, and Chicago.”
    Now she was truly bewildered; there was no falsity in her response. “That’s impossible!” she burst out. Her face was suddenly contorted with an emotion I could not quite identify. It was either fury or fear—or a combination of both. “Of course that information is on our computer and it should have been on the printout I sent you.”
    “It wasn’t,” I said. “Was it, Binky?”
    “Nope,” he said. “Just the names of the airports.”
    I saw in Sunny’s hardened eyes an affirmation of my initial instinct that she was not a woman to be trifled with. “I’ll find out what happened,” she said fiercely. “First thing tomorrow morning.”
    “If it’s missing from the computer,” I said, “is it irretrievably lost?”
    “No,” she said. “It can be restored from the original documents submitted by our funeral directors. A lot of work, but it can be done. I’m more concerned with discovering why it’s not computerized as it should have been.”
    “Please keep me informed,” I said. “I’d like to see the names and addresses of assignees in other states as soon as possible. One more thing... I think it would help if Binky and I could somehow meet the principals involved. Especially Mr. Horace Whitcomb and his son, Oliver, the chief executive officer, and Oliver’s wife, Mitzi.”
    She looked at me curiously. “How did you know her name is Mitzi?”
    “I’m sure I must have read it in the society pages of our local newspapers and magazines,” I said without a qualm. “They’re very active socially, are they not?”
    “Yes,” she said shortly. “Very. As for meeting them, that will be no problem. Mr. Horace is having a birthday party for his wife, Sarah, on Tuesday night next week. A black-tie affair. More than a hundred guests are expected. A big buffet, three bars, a band, and dancing. You’ll be able to meet all the executive personnel of Whitcomb Funeral Homes. Archy, your parents have already been invited. I’ll have invitations sent to both of you.”
    “Goody,” Binky said. “I love huge parties with dancing. Perhaps I’ll meet a wondrous lady who can do the turkey trot. As long as no one from Whitcomb follows me about with a tape measure.”
    “No,” Sunny said, smiling, “I don’t think that will happen.”
    I finished my drink, stood up, and motioned to Binky. He rose, obviously reluctantly; he would have been happy to stay for hours, drinking Sunny’s booze and schmoozing. We thanked Sunny for her hospitality, and she promised to send me the information I had requested.
    In the descending elevator I said to Binky, “A very attractive woman.”
    “A bit antique,” he said. “Too old for me.”
    “Binky!” I said. “She can’t be more than two or three years older than you.”
    “That’s what I mean,” he said.
    Then my irritation at his behavior that evening faded. I mean, the man was such an utter bubblehead, but if you’re going to be a friend of a