He smiled reassuringly. I knew I had come to the right man. The man was Arthur. He put the art in Art’s Taxidermy, a tiny little shop around the corner from Main Street. You’d miss it if you didn’t know it was there. The shop squatted in one of those old white Victorians converted to businesses when people grew more inclined to shop, rather than live, downtown. Like most of the converted homes in the area, the only clue to there being a business, instead of a family, inside was the shingle hung near the sidewalk: Art’s Taxidermy. I’d heard the rumors that Arthur did more than stuff nine-pound bass and mount deer heads for the overly proud hunter’s den. They said he’d embalm a man – if the price was right. The only problem was in getting the body. I intended to make that part easy. “My life savings,” I said, holding out a bank envelope containing a not inconsiderable sum. I had withdrawn it less than an hour before. “It’s yours; I won’t need it.”
