“That she would be back later.” Fairchild sighed, crossed his arms, and scowled out at the Gulf. “There wasn’t nearly this much fuss when Margaret died.”

“That’s the way it goes, Fairchild,” Mary Alice said. “My third husband, Roger Crane? He died on an airplane halfway across the Atlantic. Fortunately, we were coming this way. But they put us off in Nova Scotia or somewhere and took Roger to the hospital and him already dead and blue. And then I had to figure out how to get him to Birmingham. And I thought to myself, now why didn’t they just let us stay on the plane to Atlanta? It would have been so much simpler. And all the insurance companies wanting to know how come the death certificate had latitude and longitude on it for place of death.”

I reached over and picked up a photograph album from the coffee table. It opened to a picture of Millicent, Laura, and Emily Peacock sitting at one of the concrete picnic tables the state of Florida has placed in its state parks. All three women were smiling at the photographer, and beyond them the Gulf was a blue line. Emily was caught by the camera as she lifted what looked like a forkful of potato salad.

Fairchild nodded toward the album. “That sheriff woman was looking at that.”

“Tell me about Emily,” I said, studying the picture. “I’ve never known her as well as I have Millicent.”

“Kind. Into environmental stuff like Millicent was. In fact, I think that’s how they got to be such good friends, out saving turtles and stuff. Giving folks hell for picking sea oats. They even went to Tallahassee and lobbied to get a law passed about the sea oats.”

Mary Alice reached over, took the album from me, and looked at the picture. “How much was Emily involved in the development of Blue Bay?”

Fairchild smiled. “She and Millicent kept Jason Marley from doing a lot of stuff over there. Stuff they thought might harm the environment. That man found out he better not cut down a butterfly bush or dump anything in the bayou.” Fairchild smiled again. “Funny thing is he got to thinking their way. He was telling me a few nights ago that he saw a porpoise coming up into Sellers Magee Bayou. He sounded real pleased.”

Mary Alice handed the album back to me. “That’s a nice picture, isn’t it, Mouse?” She pointed to it. “Especially of Emily.”

“I need to get some copies of these made for her daughter Barbara,” Fairchild said. “She got in from Atlanta a little while ago.”

“Is that where Emily will be buried?” I asked.