“Good quality, but not ostentatious. We could have given you something much more costly, but my feeling—”

“It’s fine, wonderful.”

“Would you care to view the remains?”

I nodded. I didn’t care to, but I didn’t want to say so in front of Duff and Father Jackson.

Mr. Nichols bowed, then reverently lifted the lid of the casket. What was in there didn’t look much like Jack, although it was wearing Jack’s navy blue knit suit and Countess Mara red and white striped tie that I had given him last Christmas.

I looked for perhaps ten seconds, then turned away. Duff had left the room.

“I hired two local men to go out to your farm and dig the grave, Mrs. Caine. Your son showed them where it was to be,” said Mr. Nichols. “I also obtained the necessary county burial permit.”

“Fine.”

“A limousine is included in the cost, if you would like to ride in it.”

“Thank you. I think my son and I can find our way home in our car.”

The hearse was already parked on the street and we waited until Duff had pulled the Plymouth up behind it. Then Father Jackson parked his Ford behind the Plymouth, while Mr. Nichols took my arm and walked me slowly out to it and helped me in. I felt like kicking him.

After an interminably long time, four men, including Mr. Nichols, carried Jack’s casket down the steps and slid it into the hearse.

“How much is he charging for all this?” I asked Duff.

“Two thousand dollars.”

“That’s outrageous.”

“The flowers are included.”

“They cost him twenty dollars maximum. Where in the yard is your Dad being buried?”

“Where you and Father Jackson were digging the other day. I thought since that place was empty—”

“Who told you we were digging there?”

“Dad. And Father Jackson admitted it when I asked him. Dad said you were looking for some money that was supposed to have been put there.”

Two of the pallbearers got into the hearse. Mr. Nichols went back into the funeral home and returned with the basket of flowers, which he deposited solemnly in the back of the hearse beside the casket. Then he closed the doors and walked past us to get into the limousine that the third pallbearer had pulled up behind Father Jackson’s Ford.

“Do you know who was supposed to have been buried in the place you’re putting your father?” I asked Duff after we started off.

“No.”

“Margaret Dorn.”

“Who was she?”

I turned to look at him, but he was sober-­faced and carefully attending to his driving.

“She was supposed to have been your great-­great-­grand­father’s mistress.”

“Really? I’ve never read anything about her in my research. I haven’t read anything about any buried money either.”