“Hello, Dave.” She stepped out of the cart. “I was about to make my rounds when I noticed those rain clouds getting closer.” She gestured vaguely toward some gray clouds in the west. “I thought you might need an umbrella. You don’t want to be out here in a downpour without one.” As she was speaking, she took a bright blue umbrella from the floor of the cart and brought it to him. “Getting wet is fine if you’re swimming, but otherwise not so pleasant.”

He took the umbrella, thanked her, and waited for her to segue to her real purpose, which he was sure had nothing to do with keeping him dry.

“Just drop it off at the cottage on your way out.” She started back to the cart, then stopped as though another thought had just occurred to her. “Were you able to find your way all right?”

“Yes, I was. Of course, this particular plot would—”

“Property,” she interjected.

“Beg pardon?”

“At Willow Rest we prefer not to use the vocabulary of cemeteries. We offer ‘properties’ to families, not depressing little ‘plots.’ I take it you’re not a member of the family?”

“No, I’m not.”

“A family friend, perhaps?”

“In a way, yes. But may I ask why you’re asking?”

She appeared to be searching his face for a clue on how she should proceed. Then something in his expression seemed to reassure her. Her voice dropped into a confidential register. “I’m sorry. I certainly didn’t mean any offense. But the Spalter property, you can understand I’m sure, is a special case. We sometimes have a problem with … what shall I call them? Sensation seekers, I suppose. Ghouls, when you come right down to it.” She curled her lips in an expression of distaste. “When something tragic occurs, people come to gawk, take pictures. It’s disgusting, isn’t it? I mean, it’s a tragedy. A horrible family tragedy. Can you imagine? A man is shot at his own mother’s funeral? Shot in the brain! Crippled! A completely paralyzed cripple! A vegetable! Then he dies! And his own wife turns out to be the murderer! That’s a terrible, terrible tragedy! And what do people do? They show up here with cameras. Cameras. Some of them even tried to steal our rosebushes. As souvenirs! Can you imagine that? Of course, as resident manager, it all ends up being my responsibility. It makes me sick talking about it. Sick to my stomach! I can’t even …” She waved her hand in a gesture of helplessness.

The lady doth protest too much, thought Gurney. She sounds every bit as enlivened by the “tragedy” as the people she’s condemning. But, he reflected, that wasn’t unusual. Few behaviors of other people are more irritating than those that display our own faults in an unattractive way.