Buried In Buttercream

you.”
    “No, the skulls aren’t real,” he said with a condescending tone that made Savannah want to feed him one of his tarantulas. “But if you’re into real ones, we have connections.”
    “I’m sure you do,” Dirk said as he walked over to him. “But we’re more interested in one of your customers.”
    “We don’t reveal information about our customers. Confidentiality is an important part of shopping here.”
    “I’m sure it is,” Dirk replied. “Who’d want to admit they buy this crap?”
    “Excuse me,” Tammy called from the other side of the store. “Savannah, Dirk, could you come here for a minute?”
    Savannah was a bit surprised. Tammy knew better than to interrupt an interview, so she must have something worth saying.
    “Be right there,” Dirk called back. To the clerk, he said, “We’ll continue this conversation in a minute.”
    They walked to the rear of the store, where Tammy and Waycross were standing beside a full-wall display, which a sign identified as “The Mortuary.” The items for sale included: casket plaques, decorative coffin buckles and keys, gravesite urns, and fancy bottles containing embalming fluids.
    “Whatcha got?” Dirk asked them.
    Tammy pointed to an old leather case, much the same size and structure as that which would hold some sort of band instrument, like a saxophone or clarinet. It had a lining of dark blue velvet and, lying in deep indentations in the fabric were miscellaneous, ominous-looking antique tools. A glass funnel with a heavy metal stand nestled next to giant scissors, some forceps, and something that looked like a large, curved needle.
    Waycross reached down and ran his finger along an empty indentation. The outline of the instrument that had once occupied that place was very clearly defined. It was something with a handle and a long, very thin spike with a point on the end. “Looks about ten inches long to me,” he said. “Your coroner lady said something eight or more.”
    Bells went off in Savannah’s head that sounded like Tchaikovsky’s “1812 Overture.”
    She turned to the front of the store and shouted, “Hey, we found something we’re interested in back here.”
    “Oh, yeah,” Dirk said. “Big time.”
    When the clerk had finally meandered his way to the back, Dirk pointed out the case with its missing instrument. “What was there?” he asked.
    The guy looked at the empty slot in the lining and said, “A trocar.”
    “What the heck’s a trocar?” Savannah wanted to know.
    “It’s a long, sharp instrument that undertakers use to drain blood and bodily fluids out of corpses,” was the reply.
    “And what happened to this one?”
    “It got sold. I wouldn’t have broken up the kit, but the gal that works for me took it onto herself to sell it without asking me.”
    “Who bought it?” Dirk asked.
    “I told you ... we’ve got a confidentiality policy.”
    “And I’ve got a badge.” Dirk took it out and showed it to him. “Start talking, or you’re going to be in the middle of a real-life homicide investigation. And that ain’t gonna be nearly as much fun as all this fantasy death stuff you’ve got going on in this creepy store of yours.”
    “What do you want to know?” he asked.
    Savannah smiled. “Everything.”

    “Sorry to leave you behind at a time like this, but ...” Savannah said to Tammy and Waycross as they sat in the Mustang that was parked in Geraldine and Reuben Aberson’s driveway.
    “Hey, we understand, Sis,” Waycross said. “Go do your cop business.” He reached over and grasped Tammy’s hand. “We’ll be fine.”
    As Savannah and Dirk walked up the sidewalk to the door, she said, “With my backseat full, you’re going to need a radio car.”
    “I already called for one. It’ll be waiting when we come out.”
    He knocked on the door, and as they waited, she looked around at the little kid toys scattered on the porch and said, “I hate this.”
    “Me, too, baby. Me, too.”
    When Geraldine answered the door, again wearing an apron and smelling of baked goods, Savannah asked right away, “Is your granddaughter home?”
    Geraldine looked puzzled by the question. “No. She’s down the street playing with some of the neighbor children. Why?”
    “Because we need to talk to your husband,” Dirk said. “Right now.”
    “Oh, okay. Come on inside. I’ll get him.”
    She ushered them into the living room, where the white, fluffy dog danced on his hind legs like a