Maggie let Jacob Marley lead her to his office, down the hallway to the rear of the funeral home. Each time he attempted to place his hand on the small of her back she found a way to make him remove it, either by turning toward him or simply stopping short. She recognized the tactic as a leveling tool, a way for him to gain the upper hand. She couldn’t help thinking that it was probably an occupational hazard. Maybe it worked with his clients, not the dead ones, of course, but the ones who would be vulnerable and making the spending decisions.

Now she watched as he offered his office’s guest chair while he took a seat on the front corner of his desk where he would tower over her. That was when Maggie decided there was something about Jacob Marley she didn’t like. What was worse, there was something about him she didn’t trust.

She remained standing, pretending to be interested in the black-and-white photos that took up one wall, photos of a small boy, presumably young Jacob, an only child, with his mother and father.

“What is it that I can help you with, Maggie? You don’t mind if I call you Maggie, do you?”

“Actually, when it’s official business I prefer Agent O’Dell, thank you.”

“Official business.” He attempted a laugh, but it ended up sounding like a nervous cough. “That sounds serious.”

Before she could bring up Joan Begley, he asked, “Is this about Steve Earlman?”

She had forgotten about the town butcher and only now realized Marley and Marley may have been the funeral home that hadn’t managed to bury him. Or at least, not keep him buried. She leaned against the wall, studying Mr. Jacob Marley. She guessed him to be in his early thirties, a plain-looking man with a weak chin and narrow eyes, but in the expensive black suit and sitting high on the corner of his desk, he looked in control and poised. And he was concerned about Steve Earlman.

“I know it hasn’t been released,” he continued, “but rumor is that Steve’s body showed up in one of those barrels. It’s true, isn’t it? That’s what you’re here to check on, right?”

He was fidgeting, swinging one foot. Marley didn’t look like the type of man who allowed himself to perspire, and yet if she wasn’t mistaken, there were beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. Now Maggie was curious. What exactly was Jacob Marley worried about?

“I really can’t go into any details,” she told him. “But if that were true, what explanation could there be for something like that happening?”

Maggie still believed the killer had access to the body before it made it out to the graveyard. Perhaps he had sneaked into the funeral home after hours. Had there been a break-in that Marley failed to report? Was that what had him worried?

“We buried him in a vault,” he said, then quickly added, “the family requested a vault. You can see for yourself.” He picked up a folder from his desk, handing it to her.

It was Steve Earlman’s file with copies of his funeral arrangements and an itemized invoice. Marley had pulled it. He had been waiting for this visit. He was worried about something and it wasn’t poor Steve Earl-man’s corpse.

She flipped through the file, not sure what she should be looking for. The charges looked standard. No extravagances stood out. And yes, there was a charge of $850 for a vault, not just a vault but something called a “Monticello vault.”

“Our vaults are sealed tight,” he continued. “They’re guaranteed against cracking or seepage.”

“Really? Has anyone ever complained?”

“Excuse me?”

“Has anyone ever asked for their money back?”

He stared at her then finally laughed, this time a loud, hearty, rehearsed one. “Oh, goodness, no. But that’s a good one, Maggie.”

“Agent O’Dell.”

“Excuse me?”

“I really would prefer if you called me Agent O’Dell, Mr. Marley.”

“Oh, sure, of course.”

Maggie searched the rest of the documents in Steve Earlman’s file.

“Actually, I was curious about another client of yours. I understand you worked with Joan Begley to make arrangements for her grandmother’s funeral. Is that right?”

“Joan Begley?”

This seemed to throw him off completely.

“Yes, of course, I worked with Joan last week. We finished the last of the paperwork on Saturday. Was there a problem?”

Jacob Marley seemed more surprised than concerned this time.

She wanted to ask about their dinner out at Fellini’s. She wanted to ask him if he knew she was missing. But the look on Marley’s face answered her questions. Whatever hope she had that Jacob Marley may have had something to do with Joan Begley’s disappearance, Maggie knew that hope was squelched by the look of total confusion and surprise. Jacob Marley was hiding something, but it didn’t have anything to do with Joan. Instead, it was probably right in front of her inside this file.

Marley’s phone began ringing. He grabbed the receiver. “Yes?”

What should she be looking for? What was Marley nervous they would find?

“I’m with someone right now,” Marley said into the phone, unable to hide his irritation. “No, I won’t be able to pick up the body for at least another hour. Is Simon working today? Good. Send him when he gets in.”

He hung up the phone and turned back to Maggie. “Worst part of this job is that we always have to be on call and keep some strange hours.”

“Yes, I suppose it would be very unpredictable,” Maggie said, flipping through the pages. Then she noticed something that caught her attention. If she remembered correctly, Calvin Vargus was one of the men who had discovered the first body at the rock quarry. “You contract out with Calvin Vargus and Walter Hobbs to dig the graves?”

“Yes, that’s right.” He shifted his weight and the other leg began swinging this time. “They have the equipment to do it.”

“How long have they been doing it?”

“Oh, gosh—” Marley folded his arms over his chest “—I think as far back as when Wally’s father ran the business and he contracted with my father. So it goes back a ways. My father was a very loyal man, working with the same people for years.” He pointed to one of the photos on the wall, a portrait of the older Marley, looking somber as if ready for a funeral. “People felt the same way about him, too, God rest his soul. Even now when I try to do something different, make a few changes here and there, I can’t seem to do it without someone telling me, ‘That’s not the way Jacob Marley would do it.’”

Suddenly it struck Maggie. Maybe she was wrong after all. “Your father’s name was Jacob, too?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“So you’re a junior?”

“Yes, but please, I really hate being called Junior. Anything but Junior.”