I tried to get more from her on tonight’s event, but she didn’t have anything else to add, though she had plenty of comments about Bradford’s antics. Guys like him I’d met before: they’re always the first to look you square in the eye and assure you they’re honest long before you begin to wonder.

The phone rang in seven minutes. Abigail Saeger halted midword and midstride and sat, leaning forward as I put the receiver to my ear. Gordy was like a library for all that was crooked in the great city of Chicago, with good reason: if he wasn’t behind it himself, he knew who was and where to find them. He gave me slim pickings about Bradford, but it was enough to confirm that the guy was trouble. He’d done some stage work as a magician, Alistair the Great, until discovering there was more cash to be had conjuring dead relatives from thin air instead of live rabbits. He preferred to collect as much money as possible in the shortest time, then make an exit. The wealthy widow Weisinger was too good a temptation to a man looking for an easy way to retire.

“You need help with this bo’?” Gordy asked.

“I’ll let you know. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“Well?” asked Miss Saeger.

I hung up. “Count me in, ma’am.”

“That sounds so old. My name’s Abby.”

“Fine, you can sign it here.” I pulled out one of Escott’s standard contracts. It was short and vague, mostly a statement that the Escott Agency was retained for services by, with a blank after that and room for the date.

“How much will this be?”

“Five bucks should do it.”

“It has to be more than that. I read detective stories.”

“Special sale, tonight only. Anyone walking in here named Abby pays five bucks, no more, no less.”

For a second I thought she’d kiss me, and I was prepared to duck out of range. If my girlfriend found out I’d canoodled, however innocently or briefly, with a mere pippin of sixteen, I would find myself dead for real and for ever after.

Abby signed, fished a five-dollar bill from her pocketbook, and took my receipt in exchange. I put the money and the contract in Escott’s top desk drawer along with my shorthand notes. He’d have a fine time trying to figure things out when he came in tomorrow morning. I harvested my overcoat and fedora from the coat tree in the corner, and ushered my newest client out, locking up. She made it to the bottom of the stairs, then pulled the veil back over her face.

“Afraid someone will recognize you?” I asked. The street was empty.

“No sense in taking chances.”

Now I really liked her. I opened my new Studebaker up and handed her in, checking the sky. It had been threatening to sleet since before I got up tonight; I hoped it would hold off.

“Nice car,” she said.

The nicest I’d ever owned. My faithful ’34 Buick had come to a bad end, but this sporty replacement helped ease the loss. I got the motor purring, remembered to turn the headlights on, and put it in gear, pulling slowly from the curb. “Where’s your brother-in-law buried?” As Abby’s chin was just visible, I could see her jaw drop.

“Why do you need to know that?”

“I want to pay my respects.”

“The cemetery will be closed.”

“Which one? And where?”

She told me, finally, and I made a U-turn and got us on our way. Chicago traffic was no worse than usual as we headed toward Lincolnwood. Following Abby’s directions we ended up driving slowly along North Ravenswood Avenue. A railroad track on our left obscured the view of the cemetery grounds. When a cross street opened, I took the turn under the tracks. A pale stone building with crenellations, Gothic windows, and a square, two-storied tower with a number of slender, round towers at the corners and along the front wall looked back at us. It had too much dignity to be embarrassed. The gates that blocked its arched central opening were, indeed, closed.

“Told you,” said Abby.

“Is Mr. Weisinger anywhere near the front?” This place looked huge. They only put fancy stone buildings like that in front of the really large cemeteries.

“Go back south and turn on Bryn Mawr. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

What the lady said. It took awhile to find a sufficiently secluded place to park, then Abby provided very specific directions to the grave, which was not too far from the boundary wall.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

I was about to say she didn’t want to know, but decided that would get me an observation about not treating her like an adult. “I’m going to check to see if the grave has been disturbed enough to bring in the law.”

“But the police, the papers—”

“A necessary evil. If they show up asking Bradford how he got that wedding ring, how long do you think he’ll stick around?”

“Would they put him in jail?” She looked hopeful.

“We’ll see. You gonna be warm enough? Good. I’ll be quick.”

“Don’t you want me along?”

“I’ll bet you’re good at it, but you’re not exactly dressed for getting around fences.”

She looked relieved.

I slammed the door, opened the trunk, and drew out a crowbar from the toolbox I kept there. Since Abby didn’t need to see it and try to guess why I’d want one, I held it out of sight while approaching the cemetery’s boundary. It was made of iron bars with points on top, an easy climb if you were nimble.

I had the agility, but slipped between the bars instead. Literally. One of my happier talents acquired after my death was being able to vanish and float just about anywhere I liked, invisible as air. Since it was dark and there was some distance between me and the car, I figured Abby wouldn’t see much if I partially vanished, eased through, and went solid again. Blink of an eye and it was done.

The cemetery grounds were covered with a thick layer of mostly undisturbed snow. Trees, bushes, and monuments of all shapes showed black against it. I made my way to one of the wide paths that had been shoveled clear, looking out for the landmark of an especially ornate mausoleum with marble columns in front. Weisinger’s grave marker was just behind it. The dates on the substantial granite block told me he’d been born this day and was only a few years younger than I, the poor bastard. Another, identical block sprouted right next to it with his widow’s name and date of birth already in place.

The snow lay differently over his plot, clumped and broken, dirtier than the stuff in the surrounding area. Footprints were all over, but not being an Indian tracker I couldn’t make much from them, only that someone had recently been busy here and worn galoshes.

I poked the long end of the crowbar into the soil, and it went in far too easily. Ground that had had seven months to settle and freeze in the winter weather would have put up more resistance. Bradford or someone working for him had dug down, opened the coffin, grabbed the wedding ring, and put the earth back. Then he’d taken the trouble to dump shovelfuls of snow on top so a casual eye wouldn’t notice. He was probably hoping there’d be another fall soon to cover the rest of the evidence.

The ghoulishness of the robbery appalled me; the level of greed behind it disgusted me. I knew some tough customers who worked for Gordy, and even they would have balked at this level of low.

The moment Abigail Saeger told me about Weisinger’s death on the lake, I’d signed myself onto the job. Something twinged inside me then, connecting that death to my own and to that damned “Gloomy Sunday” song playing on the radio. I didn’t want to believe in coincidences of the weird kind; signs and portents were strictly for the fortune-teller’s booth at the midway.

But still…I got a twinge.

It was different from the gooseflesh creep that means someone’s walking over your grave. When it came down to it, I didn’t have a grave, just that lake. The people who’d murdered me had also robbed me of a proper burial. Weisinger had gotten one but Bradford had violated it.