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“Then he’s a pig with a soul.
—Cousin Kevin McMullen, porcine expert MS. VOLKERS.” I extended my hand. Sheri Volkers took it in her own. She had once been Andrew Bomstad’s fiancée and apparently wasn’t mourning his death enough to abstain from adhering little pink hearts to her fingernails. She gripped my hand as though she were afraid they might fall off. “Thank you for meeting me.”
“Yeah, sure. What’d you want?”
“Just to talk,” I said. We were already being ushered to a table. The Elephant Ear was fairly empty for a Sunday afternoon.
“’Bout Bomber?”
“Yes.” I slid into the booth across from her.
“You was his shrink?”
I was becoming a little tired of the word “shrink.” I felt like I should pull my hair atop my head and put a bone through my nose. “His psychologist. Yes. For several months.”
She nodded. Her hair was platinum blond but for the dark roots, and her face was plump and pretty. “You boink ’im?”
Wow. Another recurring theme. Who would have expected that?
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