Curious now, she studied it. There was the road and the gate and the lane that meandered around to the back, where an old stone wall marked the graveyard’s farthest boundary. And in the far right corner of her father’s cemetery, there was a tiny penciled square and two letters. HH.

Her heart beating fast against her ribs, Bessie stared at the sketch map, remembering that awful week, the week of Harold’s disappearance. Her father’s unaccustomed kindnesses, his tender gestures, his gruff words: “Some things don’t bear looking into, child.” Her breath caught in her throat, and she put her finger on the penciled square. HH. What had he done? What had her father done?

Outside the open window, a night bird called from the willow tree and the fragrance of the Angel’s Trumpet, its pale blossoms unfurled in the darkness, hung heavy on the air, like the stifling scent of funeral flowers.

TWENTY-ONE

Mr. Moseley Clears Up a Mystery

Lizzy was always the first to arrive in the law office, but when she opened the door at her usual early hour the next morning, she found Mr. Moseley already at his desk, a steaming cup of coffee at his elbow, his suit jacket draped over the back of his chair. He glanced up when she stood in his doorway and his eyes lightened.

“New dress, Liz?”

It wasn’t. She had worn the same dress—a flared-skirt, rose-print silk crepe with lace ruffles at the V-neckline—several times before, but she only smiled and nodded. She had been looking forward with great excitement to telling him about the extraordinary events of the day before. But before she could open her mouth, he was speaking.

“Swell news, Liz!” He wore a broad smile and sounded extremely pleased with himself. “Looks like this tax case is going to go forward. It’s not wrapped up—there are still depositions to be taken, more evidence, that kind of thing. But it’s looking solid. And I’ve just worked a deal that takes our client off the hook.”

“The tax case?” she asked, not sure which client he was talking about. “The case you were working on in Montgomery?”

“Yep. The tax evasion case. Which—happily for our client—has turned into a deal between the local gendarmerie and the Feds.” He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. There were circles of perspiration around his armpits, and judging from the scatter of papers across the desk, Lizzy guessed that he had been working for several hours already. There was a half-smoked cigar in the ashtray and the office reeked of stale cigar smoke. She crossed to a window and opened it, letting in a cooler morning breeze.

“Will it result in an indictment, do you think?” she asked, hoping for a clue to whatever in the world Mr. Moseley was talking about.

“I sincerely hope so,” Mr. Moseley replied. “He is a slippery sonovabitch, and I hope they nail him. But in the last analysis, it’s up to the boys at Treasury. All I did was the witness work at this end. It was the special agents out of Chicago who deserve all the credit. They combed through four years’ worth of bank remittance sheets and deposit records, they tapped telephones, they raided bookie parlors and confiscated business records. My hat’s off to those guys, Liz. They did a helluva lot of work—dangerous work. They were actually risking their lives. And by damn, when this is over, they’re going to have Capone right where they want him. I know it.”