Pulse by Edna Buchanan

with unopened mail. “There’s a few more bags in there,” she confessed. “It’s all addressed to him. I just couldn’t deal with it. I never opened his mail. I …” She shrugged again. “The more it piled up, the less able I felt to deal with it.”
    “Okay,” he instructed. “Find a letter opener. You start opening, I’ll sort.”
    She began stacking the opened envelopes next to him, assembly-line fashion. Most were bills, late notices; some, with more recent postmarks, were plastered with red stickers demanding “Remit Now” or “Third Notice.”
    “Good God, Rory.” He glanced apprehensively at the lightfixture above them. “Florida Power and Light is about to cut off your service. The phone company, too. How could you let this happen?”
    “Well …” She ran her fingers through an unruly mound of red hair. “What checks I did write were returned. I sure didn’t want to write any more bad ones. When I tried to use my ATM card, the machine ate it.”
    “What have you been living on?”
    “Been chargin’ food and gas on my Visa card. I know, I know.” She held up a hand in her defense. “I was plannin’ to get squared away soon and straighten all this out.” She looked at him plaintively. “But I was feeling lower than a snake’s belly and it just got worse and worse, ‘til I didn’t know where to start.”
    He nodded, fingering three overdue notices from Visa. He had arrived just in the nick of time.
    “Some damn bank officer should have stepped in to assist you. Even with the accounts in your husband’s name, you appear on them as beneficiary. All you need to switch them to your name is a copy of his death certificate. Sam Townsend, chairman of Southern Savings, is a friend of mine,” Frank said hotly. “He needs to know how callous and insensitive his people are. Next time make sure your name is on everything.”
    The long eyelashes dipped. “I don’t think I’ll be gettin’ married again. Daniel was one of a kind. I thought he walked on water.”
    He wondered if Kathleen would say something as touching about him.
    “Who is your broker?”
    She wasn’t sure.
    “No matter, I’ll find it in here somewhere. I’ll call and ask that you be sent copies of your most recent statementsso we can establish the current value of your portfolio. That’ll give us a better idea of your net worth. We have to start putting things together for tax purposes.”
    Even while focused on the task before him, his eyes betrayed him, straying to the stairs and the second-floor hallway to the room beyond.
    Two blasts from a car horn startled them both. Rory flew out of her chair.
    “My gosh, it’s that time already, Billy’s home!”
    She opened the door and hugged the boy, who darted inside wearing a book-stuffed backpack. A woman followed, riding the crest of children’s shouts behind her. Her blonde ponytail bounced, head swiveled, eyes darting. She wore leggings and an oversized T-shirt.
    “Just wanted to make sure you were all right, Rory.” She peered inquisitively into the dining room. “Saw the strange car in the drive. Did they find yours yet?”
    “Oh, Jill, this is Frank Douglas, he’s …” Rory seemed at a sudden loss for words.
    “The police are still looking for the car,” he lied, pushing his chair back and getting to his feet. “I’m Mrs. Alexander’s accountant.”
    “Oh,” the woman said archly. “Billy told us it was repossessed.”
    “Kids.” Frank shook his head, smiling fondly at Billy, who clung to his mother and stared back. “They say the darndest things.”
    “An accountant?” The woman inspected the living room with the thorough eye of a vice squad detective seeking signs of an orgy. “I didn’t know they made house calls.” She flashed a shiny white-toothed smile. “How nice. We have to go to our accountant’s office. Do you have a business card?”
    He patted himself down in a halfhearted motion. “No, I don’t seem to have