Free A Crazy Little Thing Called Death by Nancy Martin Page A

envelope in my handbag.
    Half a minute later, Libby rushed up the basement stairs, looking pale. “Harcourt and Hilton say they’re at a crucial moment in their dissection. They can’t possibly leave the pig right now.” She took a handkerchief from her purse and pressed it to her mouth. Then she said, “Honestly, I wonder if they were switched at birth.”
    Rawlins said, “Only if the Dahmer family is missing someone.”
    Libby gulped. “Nora, they want to know if your severed hand showed any signs of freezer burn.”
    Although I should have been appalled, I found myself seriously contemplating the question. If the hand indeed belonged to Penny Devine, there was a good chance she’d been dead for nearly a year. And where had the hand been for those months? I frowned, trying to remember some details of our grisly discovery. “I’m not sure. The flesh was wrinkled and—I guess kind of spotted.”
    Rawlins grinned. “The twins are gonna love that information. What else? Any claw marks? Signs of werewolf attack? Maybe a few maggots?”
    “Rawlins, please!” Libby gasped and dabbed her forehead. “You see what I have to put up with, Nora? Rawlins is bad enough, but the twins can hardly wait until summer. They’re going to forensic camp, you know. They’ve been promised a look at a human cadaver.”
    Rawlins began to slide Max into his hooded sweatshirt. “I wonder if every well-meaning guy who donates his body to science really knows what he’s getting into. I wouldn’t want the monsters to get their grubby hands on me—even in death.”
    I said, “Should I be worried about what they’re doing in my basement?”
    Rawlins laughed. “Wait till you see what they cooked in your frying pan!”
    Recovered, Libby stuffed her handkerchief away. “Really, Nora, you should enjoy having your nephews around a little more. They love you so dearly.”
    “Forget it, Libby. Drive them home. I refuse to take them off your hands.”
    “How about just until tomorrow night?” she wheedled, gathering the baby from Rawlins. “I need to get started on the wedding plans!”
    I groaned. “Libby—”
    “I have brilliant creative ideas bursting to get out of my head. You’ll thank me! Just keep the boys for the rest of the weekend.”
    “Out of the question.”
    “Okay, okay! I’ll come back first thing in the morning, I promise.” She fished out her car keys and edged for the door. “Come on, Rawlins. Nora, order a pizza for the twins, will you? They’re starving.”
    “Better hurry,” Rawlins advised with a grin. “If the pizza doesn’t come in time, lock yourself someplace safe and call 911.”
    I considered dragging Libby back inside by her hair and forcing her to take the twins with her. But she was remarkably quick for a woman who carried a few extra pounds. She beat me to the driveway by a good fifteen yards.
    Rawlins waved from behind the wheel as the minivan spun gravel and roared for the highway.
    I went back inside and dialed the number for pizza delivery. As the phone rang, I heard creepy laughter coming from the basement. “Better make it two,” I told the pizza shop.
    While waiting for the delivery, I tried telephoning Detective Bloom for the promised talk. He didn’t answer, so I left a voice mail. Then I scrubbed out my sauté pan. Whatever the twins had heated in it, I didn’t want to know. It smelled like eggs left in the sun.
    Or the back of Vivian Devine’s truck.
    I squirted more detergent into the sink, thinking of the dead animals that Vivian kept covered up in the truck. What was that all about? Why was the sweet old lady who gave out cookies driving around in a Deathmobile?
    Thinking about death in general, I segued to the shooting of Michael’s uncle Lou Pescara. It had been a terrible night for Michael, who’d loved his uncle despite the crimes the man had committed.
    Eventually my thoughts strayed to my own loss—the baby I’d carried for less than three months before