I’d ask Jim Jensen if he killed his wife. I’d tell him she said he would if he found out about the shoes. So, did he? I’d ask everyone I knew what the fortune meant—“You cannot step in the same river twice without getting your feet twice as wet.”

Did that message have something to do with MarySue’s death? Or was it meant for me especially?

Another question I’d ask everyone involved in the MarySue affair was, “Did you put the shoe box in my garbage? And if so, why?”

After about two minutes I gathered up all my strength and pushed against the cell door. It swung open, and I almost laughed with relief. I hadn’t been locked in at all. My rabid imagination was running away with me. I ran down the corridor and out the front door into the fresh air where Jonathan was waiting for me.

“There you are,” he said. “I was asking everyone if they’d seen you.”

“I was getting the complete prison experience,” I said breathlessly. “I’m glad I don’t have to stay here.”

As we boarded the last ferry, I looked around but didn’t see Meera. Was she still on the island by choice? I didn’t know and I didn’t care.

Jonathan and I stood outside on the deck as shadows fell across the city. He put his arm around my shoulders, and I was grateful for the warmth of the arm and his jacket, which I was still wearing.

He said he’d made reservations at the Cliff House, and I almost swooned. The place was historic. Perched on the cliffs above Ocean Beach, it was once a bathhouse but now housed one of the most famous and expensive restaurants in the city. We had a table at the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was still light enough to see the seals on the rocks below and hear the waves crashing. I couldn’t believe little me from Columbus, Ohio, was here watching the sun set over the Pacific with one of the city’s most eligible bachelors—or maybe the most eligible.

We ordered baby spinach salad with citrus and candied pecans, then crab cakes and filet mignon with truffled potatoes. We seemed to have the exact same taste in food and maybe lots of other things, like fashion. And what a relief to be with a man who didn’t constantly tell me to butt out of his business. Jonathan seemed to enjoy talking about his job and didn’t mind when I chimed in and asked questions. My kind of man.

He picked up the menu and read the back cover. “There’s been a cliff house at this location since 1863,” he said. I didn’t bother to do the math, but I wondered, if Meera were here with us, would she tell us she’d been around then? She’d probably have some interesting stories to share of how she met the Stanfords, the Crockers and the Hearsts, who would drive their carriages out to the beach for horse racing and kite flying. Sometimes the life of an ageless, undead vampire pretender sounded downright glamorous. I just didn’t want to hear about it or even worse, hear her threaten me. Isn’t that what she’d done in the prison? Or was I being too sensitive?

I forced myself to stop thinking about Meera or my other obsession, which was the murder of MarySue. When Jonathan brought me home, I told him it was the most perfect day I’d had since I’d arrived over six months ago. Of course it would have been more perfect without Meera, but I put her face out of my mind.

Jonathan said he’d had a great time too. I felt I had to reciprocate after he’d spent a fortune on me, so I said I’d invite him over for brunch on my patio where I had a not-so-shabby view of the Bay. I decided I’d worry about what a non-cook like myself would serve later. And I didn’t say anything about MarySue’s upcoming memorial. Surely he wouldn’t want to attend. He couldn’t possibly attend the funeral of every patient he’d lost. I wouldn’t go either if I didn’t have an interest in studying the crowd to see who looked sad, who looked relieved and who got hysterical.

I said good night to Jonathan and told him I’d see him soon. Then I checked my messages. There was one from Detective Jack Wall asking me to come down to the station to identify the silver shoes Marsha had worn at the fashion show. “If it isn’t too much trouble.”

He sounded slightly sarcastic, but with him you never knew. In any case I was eager to ID the shoes. I knew it was wrong to make up my mind too early, but I just knew they weren’t the shoes I’d brought back from Florida.

The next day I phoned Dolce to tell her I’d be late because I was heading for the police station to ID the silver shoes. She seemed nervous, but I didn’t know why. Money problems? Was she going to ask me to cut back on my hours? Was she going to close the shop? I couldn’t bear to think about it.

I dressed carefully in an easy-fitting double-breasted jacket, high-waisted fluid harem pants and my brogues. Then I took the bus, transferring once, to the small station in the same neighborhood where I’d volunteered at the church and I’d eaten Vietnamese food with Jack. No wonder he knew his way around, where to eat and where to volunteer. This was his beat. One not many others would want, but definitely where the action was if that’s what you were interested in.

He was sitting at a desk behind a glass partition, which I assumed was bulletproof. He stood and gave me a long look as if he couldn’t remember who I was or why I was there. Or maybe he was just trying to decide if I was wearing Tahari or Jil Sander, both known for exceptional pantsuits. Finally he pressed a buzzer that allowed me to walk in. He thanked me for coming. I said I was always glad to help the police. He didn’t mention my hiding behind a mask, and I didn’t say anything about his lack of a social life. We went into a small room lined with files and boxes. He took a box from a shelf and lifted the lid. There they were, a pair of silver stilettos gleaming in the rays of the overhead light. For a moment I wasn’t sure. Were they or weren’t they? What was wrong with me? Had I lost my keen sense of real versus fake?

“Can I touch them?”

He held out a pair of rubber gloves. I put them on. Then I picked up the shoes one at a time and looked at them, ran my fingers over the leather and tapped the heels lightly with my knuckles. All the while Jack was watching me. What he thought, I had no idea. Maybe he thought I was faking it. That I didn’t know anything. But I did. My confidence was returning. I knew my shoes and I knew I knew them.

“Well,” he said after I’d done the same with both shoes and put them back in their box.

“Fake,” I said.

“How can you be sure?” he said.

I picked up a shoe and held it up to the light. “A slanted, easily breakable heel, faux leather, and studs instead of diamonds,” I said.

“Can anyone tell the difference?” he asked. “Or just you?”

I didn’t want to brag, but I had to be honest. “No, they can’t and even if they can, it may be worth it to buy the fake for forty-six dollars if the real thing is over a thousand or many thousands.”

He whistled softly.

“I don’t mean to put down Harrington’s work,” I said. “If he made these. It can’t be easy to make a pair of shoes. Marsha looked stunning in them, didn’t you think?”

He shrugged. “I’m not big on orange dresses and silver shoes.”

“Tangerine,” I corrected. “I still don’t understand where that dress came from. It was not Dolce’s. So now what? Will you give the shoes back to Marsha?”

“I will, but I’d like to find the originals,” he said.

“Because they will lead you to the killer, am I right?” I held my breath. If he was true to form, he wouldn’t tell me anything.

Instead of answering my question, he asked, “If you wanted to buy a pair of knockoffs, where would you look?”

“Online. There are dozens of outlets.”

“Would you ever buy a knockoff?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and flipping a pen from one hand to the other.

“I have. Some designers don’t mind. They take knockoffs as a compliment. If they make beautiful shoes or dresses or whatever. They’re confident that the copies just don’t compare. Like those shoes.” I glanced at Marsha’s silver shoes. “They don’t have the same feel or the same texture, and they certainly can’t fit as well as the originals. But other designers hate being copied. They want to see us have a fashion copyright law like they have for books, music, films or art. They feel ripped off by the counterfeiters. As for Harrington making one copy for his sister or a costume for his play, I hardly think anyone could complain about that.”

“You convinced me,” Jack said. “I’ll give her back her shoes.”

“And the real shoes, the ones I brought from Miami, the ones MarySue was wearing?” I asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he said.

I didn’t believe that for a minute. I believed he had a very good guess who had them and where they were, but he didn’t have enough evidence to pounce or get a search warrant. It was maddening.

“Are you sure MarySue was wearing the shoes at the Benefit?” he asked. “You weren’t there, were you?”

I wondered if he was trying to trick me into confessing that I was actually at the Benefit and I’d killed MarySue to get the shoes back.

“No, I wasn’t there,” I said. “I can’t be sure about the shoes, but why would MarySue steal them and then not wear them? It doesn’t make sense. Everyone who was there says she was wearing silver shoes. There are only two pairs, Harrington’s and the real ones. Unless there are more knockoffs out there we don’t know about.” I suddenly had a horrible vision of boatloads of silver stilettos being unloaded from faraway countries where little children worked for pennies a day. I buried my head in my hands.

I heard Jack scrape his chair across the floor. When I looked up, he was standing. He was obviously tired of talking about and hearing about these shoes, and who could blame him? He must have other problems, other cases on his desk.

“Well,” I said, “I have to go to work. Perhaps I’ll see you at the memorial Jim is hosting at MarySue’s favorite hot spot.” I wanted him to know I had no intention of staying away.

He looked like he wanted to warn me, but after a moment, he said, “I’ll be there,” and he walked out to the front door with me.

The other person I would have liked to avoid was Nick’s aunt, Meera. But there she was standing at the bar. “What’s she doing here?” I muttered. “I thought this was a private party.”

“Who?” Dolce said, handing me a pisco punch.

“Meera, the one-hundred-year-old-plus so-called vampire who is Nick’s aunt.”

“Maybe she hangs out at cemeteries just in case—”

“In case she locates another undead vampire on their way back to earth? Right.” I took a sip of my punch hoping I wouldn’t have to speak to her. “Delicious,” I said. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the woman approaching.

“I see you’ve found me in my home away from home,” she said, greeting me with air kisses as if we were old friends. “Good choice,” she said, either referring to my glass or the tavern itself. “I’ve been coming here for ages. The place is almost as old as I am,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. Knowing her, I was sure this was either a hint for Dolce to ask how old she was or an attempt to bring the conversation around to the topic of her vampire status. I nudged Dolce to keep quiet so I wouldn’t have to hear her story again.

“You know,” she continued, “I’ve been coming here since the days of the Barbary Coast, speakeasies, Prohibition. You name it, I’ve seen it all.” She turned to Dolce. “Who’s your friend?”

“Dolce is my boss. Dolce, this is Nick’s aunt, Meera.”

“You’re both in style,” she said, giving us each a once-over. I had the distinct feeling she didn’t approve of our choices of funeral attire. “In style” but not stylish enough? Not funereal enough? “How interesting. Call me old-fashioned, but I think once you’ve found your style you should stick to it even if times change, do you agree?”

It was obvious what era she’d chosen. She was wearing a bonnet, a cape and a long full skirt. I’d hardly ever seen Dolce at a loss for words, especially when the subject was fashion, but at that moment she just stood there staring at Meera, a vision in a turn-of-the-century costume who could have stepped out of a museum. For all I knew, she had.

“Where do you get your clothes?” Dolce said at last.

“I have them made for me,” Meera said, smoothing her bouffant skirt with her hand, “by my tailor. And I don’t mean my friend Mr. Levi Strauss.”

“You knew the man who made the first blue jeans?” I asked. I should have known since Meera had been telling us she’d been around for a long time.

“Of course,” she said, twirling her parasol. “In those days San Francisco was a small city. We all knew each other. Mark Hopkins, Collis Huntington, Leland Stanford, James Flood and myself. I don’t know if you know this, but Strauss came to California from Bavaria to open a branch of the family dry goods business. He had the most charming accent.” She smiled dreamily and Dolce shot me a look that said, “Can you believe this woman?”

“When he got here he planned to make tents and wagon covers out of canvas for the forty-niners. He knew there was money to be made in the support services. But nobody wanted his tents. I felt terrible for him. He told me he was thinking of going back to Bavaria, but I convinced him to stay. I suggested he try something new like making sturdy pants for the miners.”

“So you were responsible for his success. It was your idea he should make Levi’s?” I asked politely. I knew I sounded skeptical. I was. She didn’t mind. She must be used to it.

She nodded. “But not out of canvas. Too stiff. Too hard to work with. I suggested he use a kind of denim with copper rivets.” She twisted her gold ring around her finger. What could we say? There was no one around to contradict her. Everyone from that era was dead. I began to see the benefits of being a vampire and living forever. I wanted to pin her down about her age and the discrepancy in her stories. How could she have hung out with the miners and the early movers and shakers if she was really only 128? But now was not the time to do it. Maybe that time was never.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” Meera said to me.

I wanted to say, “I don’t think I’ve seen you since Alcatraz,” but I pretended I’d forgotten all about our last meeting when she tried to lock me in the cell.

“I’ve never been here before,” I said. “We’re here for a . . . gathering . . . One of our customers, uh, recently died unexpectedly. We’re here to celebrate her life.”

“It must be Mrs. Jensen,” Meera said. “I heard about her. What did she die of?”

“Actually, she was poisoned at a society function.”

“A murder?” Meera’s eyes lit up. “How exciting. Who did it?”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a few people I recognized from the funeral just arriving at the historic tavern. Dolce drifted away from me and toward them. Probably had had enough of Meera. For some reason I hung around. Wasn’t it possible Meera knew something I wanted to know, like who might have killed MarySue?

“No one knows,” I said. “But it seems to be connected to a pair of expensive shoes she was wearing at the time.”

“Killed for a pair of shoes!” Meera said. “They must have been some shoes.”

“They were silver stilettos.”

“I say forget the shoes and look for the next of kin,” Meera said, peering over her spectacles to observe the crowd gathering at the bar. “Is that her husband over there?”

I followed her glance to where Jim was playing the host by serving drinks.

“That’s Jim,” I said. “But why would he want to kill his wife?” Of course I knew the answer to that one. He was furious with her for ordering the shoes and spending so much money. He could collect on her life insurance, and he might even have planned to return the shoes and get the deposit money back.

“I know nothing about this case, but I have been witness to many a murder over the years. President Harding died right here in San Francisco.”

“Really? When was that?” I asked.

“I’m not sure, twenty-two or three, I think. Poisoned. Just like your friend MarySue. Some suspected his wife Florence, but in that case it was not a matter of cherchez la femme. No, there’s the difference. If I were the officials, I would definitely go after the husband here. Jim is his name? He looks guilty to me.”

I thought about the life insurance, and I had to admit that she had something there. But I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of thinking she’d solved in minutes a crime the police hadn’t been able to solve in weeks.

As if she’d read my mind, she said, “I will have to have a word with the police. I’ve been helpful to them in the past you know. Ah, there is that handsome policeman now.”

I turned to see Jack standing in the doorway. Now how did Meera know who he was? No uniform. He blended in with the other mourners who were filling the bar now. How Meera intended to help Jack solve this crime, I didn’t know. I watched as she walked across the room, her lace-up boots clacking against the floorboards. She sidled up to Jack and began an animated conversation. I had no doubt she’d let him know exactly what she thought she knew. I was glad because Jack wouldn’t have believed me if he didn’t have this chance to interact with her himself.

Dolce found me and handed me a fresh drink. “I thought you could use one after getting rid of that nutcase.”

“So you didn’t buy her story?” I asked.

“Hardly,” she said. “It’s a story, that’s all.”

“I know,” I said. “If she really wants us to believe she was around for the gold rush, then she’s got to confess to being at least one hundred seventy, doesn’t she?”

Dolce frowned. “Rita, I’m worried about you. There’s no such thing as vampires. The woman is a con artist.”

“I know,” I assured her. “It’s just—”

“You’ve been working too hard trying to help the police. Forget the murder. It’s not your problem.”

“I can’t forget it,” I protested. “Not when I’m a suspect.” Or you are a suspect, I wanted to say, but I didn’t. I didn’t want Dolce as worried or involved as I was.

“Who suspects you?” she asked me.

I pointed across the room to where Meera and Jack were still talking. “Jack, the cop on the case, thinks I know more than I’m letting on. I had a motive—to get the shoes back. I thought I had an alibi, but no one clocked me in at the hospital when I arrived. Someone saw a woman who could have been MarySue drop me off, but it’s all so murky,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m going to find the ladies’ room,” I said. I had to freshen up before more people arrived. I headed toward the rear of the bar where I saw a sign in several languages.

I’d just turned the corner down a dim hallway toward the restroom when I heard footsteps behind me. When I turned around, I saw Jim Jensen looming over me.

“There you are,” he said. “You have a lot of guts coming to my party.”

“Who me?” I said. Maybe he’d mistaken me for someone else in the dark.

“Yes, you, Rita Jewel. You’re responsible for MarySue’s death.”

“I wasn’t even there that night. I was in the hospital.”

“I don’t care if you were in the morgue. You are an enabler. You knew MarySue had a compulsive shopping addiction.”

“No, no, I didn’t,” I protested. I wondered if Dolce knew.

“And you did nothing. Worse than nothing. You encouraged her to buy more stuff. Her closet was overflowing. Her credit card was maxed out until I cut it in half. I signed her up for a twelve-step program, but she wouldn’t go. She went shopping instead. Mumbled something about ‘retail therapy.’ ”

“I swear I didn’t know,” I said, backing up until I hit the wall.

“You went to Miami to buy those shoes for her, don’t deny it.”

“Yes, but I thought—”

“You didn’t think. All you cared about was your commission on a pair of shoes. You might not have put the poison in the champagne, but you are responsible for my wife’s death just the same. You brought the shoes for her, and someone wanted the shoes so bad he killed her to get them.”

By then I was shaking, my arms were covered with goose bumps. I didn’t know what to say except something like How do you know it was a he? I was more convinced than ever that Jim had killed MarySue himself and he was looking for someone to take the blame. It wasn’t going to be me. I took a deep breath.

“Jim,” I said as calmly as I could, “I’m sorry for your loss. You’re obviously on step one in the seven stages of grief. It’s stressful and exhausting, but it’s natural. Everyone has to go through it. You aren’t alone and you’re not yourself.”

“How do you know I’m not myself?” he demanded.

“I, uh, I just know. I know you have to work through it. There’s no skipping over even one step. Believe me, I had no idea MarySue had a shopping problem. I mean, our store is full of shoppers who buy clothes and accessories day after day. MarySue wasn’t any different than they are.”

“She was sick,” he shouted. “She needed help. Don’t you see the difference?”

I shook my head and backed slowly down the hall away from Jim the way you’re supposed to when faced with a grizzly bear. I was afraid he’d have another heart attack. This time it wouldn’t be a warning, it would be for real and I’d be to blame. I thought he’d follow me, but he didn’t.

When Jack saw me reappear in the bar a few minutes later, he raised his eyebrows. He pointed to a small table, and I went there, sat down and put my head in my hands. My legs were shaking, and the room was spinning around. When I heard someone approach, I looked up thinking it had to be Jack and I could tell him what had happened. I knew I was in danger of repeating myself, but I was more sure than ever Jim had killed his wife. Seven stages of grief? That surely didn’t apply to the murderer, did it? I’d made that up. I’d just been trying to humor Jim, playing along with him, because if he knew that I’d discovered the truth, he’d kill me too.

But it wasn’t Jack who joined me at the table. It was Patti, MarySue’s sister-in-law. “I heard Jim yelling at you,” she said, putting her multiringed hand over mine. “He’s not supposed to get upset.”

“I don’t know what I said to upset him,” I said.

“It’s not your fault, it’s mine,” she said.

I frowned. “What is?”

“It’s my fault MarySue saw the picture of the shoes in Vogue. I showed them to her, then she had to have them for the Benefit. One way or another.” She shook her head slowly. “I should have known Jim would be livid. She was compulsive that way. It drove him crazy.”

“I can imagine,” I muttered. It made him so crazy he killed his wife. I wondered how sorry Patti was that her sister-in-law was out of her life. She didn’t mention her husband, MarySue’s brother. I hadn’t seen him today. Was he grieving at all, or not so much? “The silver shoes were in Vogue magazine?” I asked to be sure I heard right. If they were in Vogue, why hadn’t I seen them? Because Peter lifted Dolce’s copy from her office while I was on the phone. The next time I saw him, I was going to ask for it back.

“It’s sad, isn’t it?” Patti asked.

“Yes,” I said, though I wasn’t sure what was sad. MarySue’s murder? The shoes stolen? MarySue’s shopping addiction?

“I mean that anyone would buy a pair of shoes right out of Slumdog Millionaire,” Patti said. “But that’s what happened. If you believe the story in Vogue. You and I know where those shoes came from.”

We do? Yes, I knew they came from a small exclusive shop in Miami. What did that have to do with a movie about a TV quiz show in India where a kid from the slums wins a million dollars?

“The question is, where did they go?” I asked. “Were they stolen or . . . She didn’t . . . she wasn’t buried in them, was she?”

Patti’s blue eyes widened. “Oh, my God, I never thought of that. All that money buried in the ground. I’ve been assuming that Jim returned the shoes after she died, because he needed the money. He was furious with her for buying them. But he’s been so worked up over it there’s no telling what he might have done with them. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d thrown them in the Bay.”

“He didn’t return them to Dolce’s,” I said. I didn’t mention the fact that MarySue hadn’t paid in full for the shoes. I knew it was wrong to speak ill of the dead. For all I knew, Patti had taken the shoes herself and was putting up a good front of innocence. Did she kill her sister-in-law or was it Jim? I stared at her, wondering if she could possibly have done it. I just couldn’t picture it. Although she had a motive and the opportunity. I shifted my gaze to the crowd at the bar. A minute ago I was sure it was Jim who’d killed MarySue, now I was wavering. I had a feeling that the murderer was here today, but where? And who?

“Let me know if you hear anything,” Patti said, standing up. I had to admit she looked great if a tad inappropriate in her little black cocktail dress and huge black hat. Dressed as she was, she could have been on her way to tea at the Ritz-Carlton. Her long legs were covered with leather boots with zippers and buckles, what else? And she hadn’t spared the jewelry.

I agreed, but I wondered what she meant by “if you hear anything.”

I signaled to Dolce, and she came to my table with another drink in her hand. “This one’s an appletini, so it’s really good for you. You know what they say about an apple a day,” she said just before draining her glass. “Are you ready to go?”

I nodded. “I had no idea these affairs were so stressful. There’s just one thing. Could we stop by the cemetery on our way home?”

Dolce gave me a funny look. Then she shrugged. “Sure.”

“I just want to see where she’s buried.” I didn’t dare tell Dolce what I feared because it was so irrational. The rational part of me knew that MarySue could not have been bitten by a vampire that night at the Benefit because there was no such thing as a vampire. But the irrational part also knew enough about vampire legends to know that if vampires existed and even if they’d buried MarySue facedown, she’d find a way to get out of her grave. Not that I wanted to see her or that she’d want to see me. I didn’t know what I’d do if I saw her. Probably run the other way.

On our way out of the tavern, we had to stop and speak to some of our customers, so it was a good thing we’d put in an appearance for the sake of Dolce’s business. When we finally got to the parking lot, I offered to drive since I’d had less to drink than Dolce. I just got in to the driver’s seat when Jack came walking across the parking lot toward our car.

“Leaving so soon?” he asked when I rolled down my window.

“I don’t do well at social functions,” I confessed.

“You seemed disturbed. What happened?” he asked.

“Just the usual. Nothing new. Jim Jensen accused me of killing his wife. That’s all. What about you? Did you learn anything?”

“Maybe. So you’re off?”

Dolce leaned over toward the window. “We’re going to the cemetery.”

I nudged her. If she hadn’t had three drinks, she wouldn’t have blabbed.

“Really,” he said, giving me a curious look. “So you don’t do well at social functions, but you do better at cemeteries. I have to say I’m surprised.”

“Just to pay our respects without a big crowd around,” I explained. He didn’t look convinced. I wanted to see the spot where MarySue was buried. That’s all.

“So did you get a chance to talk to Peter?” I asked.

“The shoe guy? Yes. He’s an odd one. He seemed nervous.”

“That’s the effect you have on people. Or didn’t you tell him you were a cop?”

“I told him. He told me MarySue was a good customer with superior taste.”

“I think the word he was looking for was ‘expensive’ taste. I wonder if Jim knows how good a customer she was of Peter’s. If he does, he should be threatening Peter and not me. What did I do besides pick up the shoes in Miami?”

Jack didn’t answer. He just stood there looking thoughtful, then he said good-bye and we drove off.

The cemetery was deserted. I was having second thoughts before I even got to the gate and asked the guard where MarySue was buried. Dolce obviously thought I was insane to come here when it was so depressing. But to her credit she didn’t say a word. Maybe the effect of the final appletini. She just thanked me for driving, leaned back in the passenger seat and closed her eyes.

I parked and left Dolce in the car. I just wanted to look at her grave. I wanted to know if she was wearing the silver shoes. But I would never know that.

The sod was still fresh on her grave, the stone was polished and engraved with her name and the dates of her birth and death. I stood there alone for a long moment staring at the ground. Nothing moved. Nothing happened. Of course it didn’t.

“I’m sorry, MarySue,” I said quietly. “I never should have gone to your house that night. Thank you for taking me to the hospital if that was you. I appreciate it. If you hadn’t . . . On the other hand, you’re the one who shoved me off the ladder. But let’s let bygones be bygones. I just wish I knew who killed you. But I’ll find out, I promise I will.”

I sighed and went back to the car feeling more than a little foolish for talking to a dead person. How ridiculous was that?