Sure.
But they are much more rare than money-grubbing family members who want to take the money and run.
“Let me guess . . . Yvette Horne.”
“Yvette Horne,” Frederick confirms with a bitter chuckle. “She was worth three Alka-Seltzers, you know.”
“She came to see me a few days ago, said corporate sent her to me for the face-to-face. We filled out the claim and it’s in process. I explained that it can take some time.”
Frederick snorts. “Yeah, well, she didn’t get the message because she’s not giving us any. Woman already retained a lawyer and is sending us certified letters threatening her intention to sue if we don’t show some hustle.”
“What?” I exclaim. “And legal didn’t tell them to fuck off?” So much for my professionalism, but Yvette’s threats are way out of bounds given the timeline.
“Lawyers don’t do that, you know,” Frederick says. “They try to be more circumspect than that.” It could be a criticism, but Frederick’s tone is ramping up in frustration too.
“The man just died, and we only filled out the claim days ago,” I protest, repeating what we both already know. “Does she expect me to pull the money out of my ass like a rabbit from a hat? I’m not a magician.”
“No, she’s just trying to light a fire under our asses and get her money sooner rather than later. Which makes me question . . . is it a legit claim?”
I can appreciate his concern, especially when a widow or widower seems to be pulling a fast one. Or trying to, at least. In response, I pull the file folder from the small stack on my desk and flip it open, perusing the claim form I filled out with Ms. Horne’s help.
The next page is the death certificate with Zoey’s loopy handwriting.
“The death certificate is fine, but there’s an exception note. Toxicology reports show unusually elevated metal levels, which is weird, but not enough to be the cause of death. Hmm.” I hum out loud as I think.
“What?” Frederick asks on a chuckle. “Did he live in an old house and lick the paint? Or work in a factory? Or chew on pencils as an afternoon snack?”
“No, no, and pencils are graphite, not lead,” I answer automatically. “Chewing on them can wreck your teeth but not increase metal levels in your blood.”
“You would be the one to know that, wouldn’t you?” he says, chuckling harder now. The image of his belly jiggling like a bowl full of jelly comes to my mind.
“The police are still investigating because there’s no clear cause of death, though there were some heart abnormalities too. Until they close the case, we can’t pay out the claim, anyway. Mrs. Horne will have to wait.”
“Too bad it wasn’t a suicide,” Frederick says on a sigh. “No claim payout then.”
That’s true, but callous, even for a joke.
“Pretty sure he didn’t poison himself into a heart attack,” I answer flatly. “It’d be the most unique case for the books if he did.”
“Yeah, I figured. Well, be on alert with this one. I get the feeling this woman is going to be a problem. Maybe check in with the police and coroner so we can get in front of any potential lawsuit?”
Actually, that’s a great idea, and a really good excuse to go see Zoey again in her safe space. At work.
Yeah, I’m going to track her down again, barge into her morgue, and see if I can get her to eat dinner with me again. It might not be an official date the way I want it to be, but I’ll take what I can get.
A guy’s gotta eat, and so does Zoey.
* * *
The Williamson County Sheriff’s Office is quiet when I walk inside. Actually, it’s basically a ghost town with no one in sight. There are six desks with ancient desktop computers, a water cooler between two windows, and a long table beneath a dry erase board off to the side that seems to be a shared workspace.
“Hello?” I call out.
A door opens on my right, and a blonde, middle-aged man in a tan uniform appears. He swipes at his mustache . . . no, he’s checking his breath. My guess is he was out on a smoke break.
“Sheriff Jeff Barnes, what can I do for you?” he offers. He doesn’t offer a hand, which I honestly appreciate. Instead, he gives me a professional nod.
It’s good, and I return the gesture. “Nice to meet you, Sheriff. I’m Blake Hale from Everlife Insurance. I’d like to talk to you about a claim we’ve had from the beneficiary of Richard Horne.”
Jeff’s lips quirk under his thick mustache, but he reassumes his professional demeanor quickly. “Sure thing. Hale, you said? Come on over here and let me see what I got on ol’ Dickie Boy.”
He sits down at one of the desks and reaches for the single manilla folder in the basket. Opening it, he licks his finger and uses it to point as he scans down the page. “Yeah, Horne died at home, nose down in his breakfast. Autopsy was hinky, so we can’t close the case yet.”