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“
It
’
s
about
Mrs
.
Wheatley
.
”
She
was
looking
at
the
cigarette
,
never
really
smoked
,
on
the
ashtray
.
“
How
’
s
Alma
?
”
the
voice
said
.
“
Is
she
there
with
you
?
In
Mexico
?
”
The
interest
sounded
forced
.
She
could
picture
him
as
she
had
seen
him
at
Methuen
,
wishing
he
were
somewhere
else
,
everything
about
him
saying
that
he
wanted
to
make
no
connections
,
wanted
always
to
be
somewhere
else
.
“
She
’
s
dead
,
Mr
.
Wheatley
.
She
died
this
morning
.
”
There
was
silence
at
the
other
end
of
the
line
.
Finally
she
said
,
“
Mr
.
Wheatley
…
”
“
Can
’
t
you
handle
this
for
me
?
”
he
said
.
“
I
can
’
t
be
going
off
to
Mexico
.
”
“
They
’
re
going
to
do
an
autopsy
tomorrow
,
and
I
’
ve
got
to
get
new
plane
tickets
.
I
mean
,
get
a
new
plane
ticket
for
myself
…
”
Her
voice
had
suddenly
gone
weak
and
aimless
.
She
picked
up
the
coffee
cup
and
took
a
drink
from
it
.
“
I
don
’
t
know
where
to
bury
her
.
”
Mr
.
Wheatley
’
s
voice
came
back
with
surprising
crispness
.
“
Call
Durgin
Brothers
,
in
Lexington
.
There
’
s
a
family
plot
in
her
maiden
name
.
Benson
.
”
“
What
about
the
house
?
”
“
Look
”
—
the
voice
was
louder
now
—
“
I
don
’
t
want
any
part
of
this
.
I
’
ve
got
problems
enough
here
in
Denver
.
Get
her
up
to
Kentucky
and
bury
her
and
the
house
is
yours
.
Just
make
the
mortgage
payments
.
Do
you
need
money
?
”
