The post office was on the corner, a small redbrick building with a two-car parking lot. Beside it, separated by no more than a two-foot strip of grass, was the Morganville bank. Two men stood beside the outside mailbox, smoking and talking. They watched as Maggie pulled into the lot, as she stepped out of the car and as she walked toward the post office. Deciding to try her luck, she turned her head and flashed them a smile.

“Good morning.”

“Morning,” they said in unison. One of them pushed back his fishing cap. “Nice car.”

“Thank you.”

She walked inside, pleased that she had had what could pass for a conversation.

There was one woman behind the counter already engaged in what appeared to be casual gossip with a younger woman who toted a baby on her hip. “No telling how long they’ve been there,” the postmistress stated, counting out stamps. “Nobody’s lived out there since the Faradays, and that’s been ten years last month. Old lady Faraday used to come in for a dollar’s worth of stamps once a week, like clockwork. ’Course, they were cheaper then.” She pushed the stamps across the counter. “That’s five dollars’ worth, Amy.”

“Well, I think it’s spooky.” The young mother jiggled the baby on her hip while he busied himself gurgling at Maggie. Gathering up the stamps, she stuffed them into a bag on her other shoulder. “If I found a bunch of old bones in my yard, I’d have a for-sale sign up the next day.” Hearing the words, Maggie felt some of her pleasure in the day fade. “Billy said some drifter probably fell in that gully and nobody ever knew about it.”

“Could be. Guess the state police’ll figure it out before long.” The postmistress closed the conversation by turning to Maggie. “Help you?”

“Yes.” Maggie stepped up to the counter. The young woman gave her one long, curious look before she took her baby outside. “I’d like to send this registered mail.”

“Well, let’s see what it weighs.” The postmistress took the package and put it on the scale. “You want a return receipt?”

“Yes, please.”

“Okay.” She took the pencil from behind her ear to run the tip along a chart taped to the scale. “Cost you a bit more, but you’ll know it got there. Let’s see, it’s going to zone—” She broke off as she caught the return address on the corner of the package. Her gaze lifted, focusing sharply on Maggie, before she began to fill out the form. “You’re the songwriter from California. Bought the Morgan place.”

“That’s right.” Because she wasn’t sure what to say after the conversation she’d overheard, Maggie left it at that.

“Nice music.” The postmistress wrote in meticulously rounded letters. “Lot of that stuff they play I can’t even understand. I got some of your mama’s records. She was the best. Nobody else comes close.”

Maggie’s heart warmed, as it always did when someone spoke of her mother. “Yes, I think so, too.”