The envelope contained a book. One of a Time-Life series on natural disasters that had run into something like twenty volumes and cost three times what it was probably worth. The volume Doris received was Freak Storms, which was, Doris noted, number thirteen in the series. The double irony of it had a familiar feel to it, somehow, like a singular joke style one might hear from a stand-up comic such as Don Rickles or George Carlin. One that a listener immediate recognizes as that particular comic’s work, even if the voice was disguised. Unfortunately, Doris couldn’t dredge up a connection to a name. She would probably have generated micro-fractures in her back molars from gritting her teeth had she not taken a vow this last New Year’s Eve, to not only floss consistently but avoid chewing rocks, peach pits or ice. The last dental exam had been rugged.

Doris was methodical and had been very careful when she opened the package, taking extreme care not to contaminate the contents. She dusted for prints. There were none. She thought about DNA analysis, but only in passing because she knew how bloody much such testing cost; she couldn’t convince herself that she wanted to know that badly.

Milt wisely went back to preparing dinner, taking over Doris’ salad duties, giving her time to get adjusted to one of life’s vagrant non-sequiturs. Things got awfully quiet and he paused long enough to glance into the front room to see what Doris might be up to, and then nodded to no one in particular as she finished fishing in her purse for her cell phone. She grabbed the phone book to look up a number.

Like any good cop, Milt made sure he was close enough to eavesdrop.

“Hugh? This is Doris. Yeah, I figured you’d probably get that answer from Linus but I could have been wrong. Listen, what books did you get? You never actually said and I’m curious.” Milt nearly fell over leaning sideways to try and hear a reply three orders of magnitude too soft to hear. “Really? Two different series? Natural Disasters and The History of Civilization. How many of the disaster series you got? Two? Volumes three and seven.” Doris again paused while she listened to Hugh go on at length. “You want volume thirteen?”

Milt heard a tinny, tiny shriek and then Doris sighed. He leaned out of the kitchen and watched her put her cell phone away. “Not interested in getting volume thirteen?”

“You could say that. I think he swallowed his tongue there at the end. I ought to call the paramedics but frankly, I’m too disgusted to bother.” She glared at Milt and then, as he started to open his mouth, added bitterly, “And I do not want volumes three and seven, Milt. Don’t even bother to ask. I’m going to chuck this turkey into the closet and forget about it.”