But Luke wasn’t to be sidetracked.

“What the hell do you know about marriage, you ungrateful punk. You and your Miss Boobie Bungalow. Think you’re so high and mighty up there running the whole United States. Well, I’ve got some news for you, sonny boy.”

“I’m turning off the gas,” I said, jumping up. “Y’all act the fool all you want, but close the door good when you leave.”

They were glaring at each other when Sister and I grabbed our coats and left.

“Tacky,” she repeated as we stepped out onto the porch. “Common as pig tracks. What do you suppose brought that on?”

“They’re just tired and worried. They’ll be crying and hugging in a little while.”

“I hope so.”

So did I.

We both realized at the same time that there was no way that we could leave. The Jaguar was blocked by two pickups and a shiny black Studebaker with ANTIQUE CAR on the tag.

“Would you look at that,” Sister said admiringly. “That’s the kind of car I had before Will Alec and I got married. Remember? I got it real cheap because it smelled so bad. I think a cat died in it or something. It was okay with the windows down, though.”

She walked over and looked in the car. “This is great. I wonder if they want to sell it.”

“Maybe they’ll swap with you.”

“You ladies need something?” A man in overalls and a plaid flannel shirt had come from the church and was walking toward us.

Sister pointed to the multiple vehicles behind us. “We’re blocked in.”

“You sure are,” the man agreed. He took off an Atlanta Braves cap and ran his hand through thinning gray hair. “I’ll see can I find out who these trucks belong to. The Studebaker’s mine.”

“It’s beautiful. I used to have one like it,” Mary Alice said.

“Good for you.” He held out his hand. “Joe Baker. Monk’s brother-in-law.”

We shook hands. He was a thin, frail-looking man in his sixties, but his grip was so strong it hurt.

“You find everything all right in the house? My sister always kept it neat as a pin. I don’t know since she died though, and Monk’s been bringing all these women in.”

“The house is fine,” I said.

Joe Baker frowned as if he doubted that seriously. Then he said, “Your boy told us what you were doing, trying to locate his mama.”

“We are.”

“Well, could be she’s in Nashville. That’s where Monk was going Friday. I talked to him Thursday night. Said he had a painting job up there.”

“But he was found dead in her car in Pulaski,” Sister said.

Joe Baker shrugged. “Don’t know.” Then, “I’ll see whose trucks these are.”

I reached in my pocket, pulled out the Heritage Inn matchbook, and handed it to Sister.