“I don’t think her sister is going to be the one to replace her,” said Shelly.

“It would take four people to do what she was doing,” said Hud.

“Too bad, what happened to her.” This was a new voice, and they turned to see Irene Potter in her dark dress and alert face, a cookie stuffed with M&Ms in her slim fingers.

“Terrible,” said Shelly.

“What do you suppose he hit her with?” asked Irene.

“Irene!” scolded Shelly.

“Does it matter?” asked Hud.

“Whatever it was, he took it away with him. I was just talking to the detective in the case. He’s here, you know. Says it’s true murderers always come to the funeral of their victims.”

Hud opened his mouth, but Irene talked right over anything he might have said. “I was wondering if maybe Margot didn’t bring it down with her, to scare him off with, and he grabbed it away and hit her with it.”

“Stop it, Irene!” Shelly turned and walked away and Hud quickly made an excuse to leave her as well. When Irene got into one of her “speculating” moods, there was no talking to her about anything else. You just had to let her get over it.

Reverend Rettger watched this exchange as he sipped the coffee. He was unhappy that Ms. Devonshire had insisted on being left at the cemetery. The manner in which she refused almost made him think she was angry with him, which he knew was impossible. He had thought that when she saw how the congregation reacted to the Proverbs reading, she would understand that everyone present stood eager to give her comfort and aid of any sort. But she seemed to be in a mood to resist any help. He’d seen grief in many forms, but the sort that resisted comfort was the saddest kind.

Of course, she had reason to be angry, her sister being taken from her in such a sudden, dreadful way. Perhaps if the police were to find and arrest her murderer quickly—it was probably one of those teenagers who would be unable to explain himself, unfortunately so common nowadays. It was small satisfaction to a bereaved family, to learn that the captured murderer could only shrug when asked why.

Irene watched Shelly join another group. What was the matter with her? Just a few days ago she’d joined eagerly in speculating about Betsy and Margot. Speculation—Irene didn’t call it gossip—was so interesting, and it was great to have found someone who liked it even more than she did. Why did people do what they did? Whatever were they thinking? Irene, perhaps because people were such a mystery to her, never tired of speculating about them.

Why on earth had Margot gone charging into her shop? She hadn’t brought a knife, or she would have been stabbed. Irene thought about that, the blood spattering all over the walls—she’d seen a photo once of a crime scene and been quite shocked.

But Margot hadn’t been stabbed; she’d been mashed in the head. They’d done an autopsy. But she couldn’t speculate on the autopsy, she didn’t know how they were done.