“Leticia and Maxine are playing canasta on the front porch,” Bessie said. “Can’t you hear them bickering? Dorothy went to her room to read, but five will get you ten that she’s really having a nap. And Mrs. Sedalius’ son is here for a visit. He’s taken his mother for a ride in his car. First time in a year he’s been to see her.” She cocked her head at her guests. “So. What’s this family history you wanted to talk about?”

“Liz and I were curious about Miss Hamer’s niece,” Verna said. “Nona Jean Jamison. We understand that she’s moved in with her aunt, and we were . . . well, just wondering.” She glanced at Liz. “We know that you’re interested in family history, and that you’ve been friends with Miss Hamer for a long time.”

“So we thought you might be able to tell us something about the Hamer family history,” Liz added.

Bessie drew in a deep breath and leaned back in her chair. She knew Verna, and from the tone of her voice, thought that there was more here than simple curiosity. Verna was a suspicious person by nature, and in this case—

“The Hamer family history?” she asked. She rubbed a knuckle in her eye, trying not to show that the Hamer family was as disturbing a subject as the Bloodworths. At that moment, Roseanne appeared with the pitcher of lemonade—the pitcher was decorated with painted oranges and lemons—and matching glasses on a tray. “Thanks, Roseanne,” she said, grateful for the interruption, and began to pour lemonade.

“I met Miss Jamison when she came to do some business with Mr. Moseley,” Liz went on in an explanatory tone. “And Verna—” She took the glass Bessie handed her. “Verna had a little conversation with her at the drugstore. But maybe she’d better tell you about that part.”

Verna leaned forward with an intent look. “The thing is, Bessie, I’ve met her before. Miss Jamison, I mean. About ten years ago.”

“In Monroeville, maybe?” Bessie guessed, handing Verna a glass and setting the pitcher on the low table in front of them. “That’s where Nona Jean grew up. Her mother—she’s dead now—was Miss Hamer’s younger sister. At least, that’s what I understand. I met her for the first time last week, when she got into town.” She settled back in her chair. This was all true, and easy. It was the part of the story that didn’t harbor any ghosts.

“Not in Monroeville,” Verna replied sharply. “And she wasn’t Nona Jean, either. When I met her, she was in New York City, going by the name of Lorelei LaMotte.”

“Lorelei—” Bessie blinked. “Who did you say?”

Bessie listened as Verna told her story. By the time it was finished, she was shaking her head in disbelief.