In two strides, Mr. Moseley was standing in front of her. “I don’t know how you and your buddies do it, Liz,” he said, “but you’ve done it again.” And then, to Lizzy’s astonishment, he bent forward and kissed her, full and hard, on the mouth.

Then he turned and headed for the door again. “Call the sheriff,” he commanded over his shoulder. “Now!”

TWENTY-TWO

Bessie Solves a Mystery, Myra May’s Car Breaks Down, and Violet Sims Offers a Lift

A few hours later, Lizzy was straightening her desk and getting ready to go to lunch when the door opened. She turned to see Bessie step in and greeted her, surprised: it was the second time in two days that she had come to the office. But when Lizzy looked closer, she saw that Bessie’s eyes were red and puffy. She had been crying.

“Why, what’s the matter, Bessie?” Lizzy asked, putting an arm around the older woman’s shoulders.

Bessie sniffled and held out a key ring. “Would you drive me out to the cemetery, Liz? Myra May said we can take her car. I asked her to drive, but Violet isn’t back yet and she can’t leave the diner during the dinner rush. I could walk—it’s only a couple of miles, but I’d rather not do this alone. And I don’t feel as though I can wait until late afternoon, when Myra May will be free.”

With one more look at Bessie’s face, Lizzy decided that lunch could wait. She reached for the car key. “I’ve never driven Big Bertha before, but if you’re game, I’ll give it a try.”

Big Bertha, Myra May’s 1920 green Chevrolet touring car, was parked in the ramshackle garage behind the diner. Bertha was ten years old and on her fifth set of tires and her second carburetor, but she still had a good many miles left in her. Lizzy climbed in feeling doubtful, but the car looked enough like Grady’s Ford that she thought she could manage it. Bravely, she inserted the key and pushed the starter button, and (after a little coaxing) the engine started. Gingerly, she backed it out, shifted into low gear, and swung the car out onto Robert E. Lee, startling a fat white hen that clucked frantically and scurried to get out of the way. “Where are we going?” she asked, over the rattle and cough of the motor.

“Schoolhouse Road,” Bessie said, holding on to her hat as they bounced along. “The Darling Cemetery.”

The morning had been sunny, but gray clouds were beginning to gather to the south. The air felt heavy with moisture and the trees drooped, their limbs too languid to support the weight of their summer foliage. But driving was pleasant because the canvas-topped touring car, which had no side curtains, admitted a breeze.

Lizzy held her questions until they turned off Schoolhouse Road and drove through the black-painted ironwork gates and into the cemetery. The rolling, wooded grounds were crowded with gravesites dating back to Darling’s founding, marked by simple headstones as well as elaborate stone urns, stone Confederate soldiers with stone rifles, and stone angels blowing silent stone trumpets to summon the dead to their eternal reward.