“Oh no-sir-ree-bob. But it’s none of my business as long as they don’t wreck the room.”

“You’re not too far from the farm that burned,” I then said.

She got more animated. “I was working that night. You could see the flames shooting up like a volcano going off.” She gestured broadly with her arms. “Everyone staying here was out front watching and listening to the sirens. All those poor horses. I can’t get over it.”

“Are you acquainted with Kenneth Sparkes?” I wondered out loud.

“Can’t say I’ve ever seen him in person.”

“What about a woman who might have been staying in his house?” I asked. “You ever heard anything about that?”

“Only what people say.” Helen was looking at the door as if someone might appear any second.

“For example,” I prodded.

“Well, I guess Mr. Sparkes is quite the gentleman, you know,” Helen said. “Not that his ways are popular around here, but he’s quite a figure. Likes them young and pretty.”

She thought for a moment and gave me her eyes as moths flickered outside the window.

“There are those who got upset when they’d see him around with the newest one,” she said. “You know, no matter what anybody says, this is still the Old South.”

“Anybody in particular who got upset?” I asked.

“Well, the Jackson boys. They’re always in one sort of trouble or another,” she said, and she was still watching the door. “They just don’t like colored people. So for him to be sporting something pretty, young, and white, he tended to do that a lot . . . Well, there’s been talk. I’ll just put it like that.”

I was imagining Ku Klux Klansmen with burning crosses, and white supremacists with cold eyes and guns. I had seen hate before. I had dipped my hands in its carnage for most of my life. My chest was tight as I bid Helen the clerk good night. I was trying not to leap to assumptions about prejudice and arson and an intended victim, which may have been only Sparkes and not a woman whose body was now on its way to Richmond. Of course, it may simply have been Sparkes’s vast property that the perpetrators had been interested in, and they did not know anyone was home.

The man in the tank top was on the pay phone when I went out. He was absently holding his new lightbulb and talking in an intense, low voice. As I walked past, his anger flared.

“Dammit, Louise! That’s what I mean. You never shut up,” he snarled into the phone as I decided to call Benton later.