I’m not sure I’m breathing.

“The next morning I took the car to the grocery store—for real that time—and as I was loading the bags into the backseat, I found a pair of stockings. They weren’t mine, and they were not in pristine condition—if you know what I mean. When I got home, I kicked that sorry sack right out of the house. For good.”

“Have you ever told this to anyone before today?”

“Sure. The police. I called them back and told them I hadn’t been straight with them. That my husband made me lie.”

A car horn honks behind me. I pull into the right lane and accelerate to the speed of the cars around me. “What did the police say?”

“Not to worry. That I wouldn’t get into any trouble. Everything was under control.”

Under control. “Do you remember which officer you told?”

“Yes. He came out to the house. It was that cop they sent to Parchman later on. Ray Presley.”

No account of this meeting made it into the case report. “Was Presley alone when he came to see you?”

“Yes. He gave me the creeps, that Presley. Always did.”

“Did anyone from the FBI question you about this?”

Mrs. Little says nothing, but not because she has nothing to tell.

“Mrs. Little, do you remember an FBI agent named Dwight Stone?”

“Well, actually . . . I do, yes. But that’s all I have to say. Good—”

“Please wait! Do you have any idea who your husband was with on that day? Which floozie, I mean? I know this is painful, but it’s terribly important. The faster I get to the bottom of this, the less chance anyone is going to get hurt.”

“I don’t like talking about this.” Her breaths are shallow, anxious. “If you get to the bottom of it, my ex-husband is going to come out of it smelling like a cowpie, isn’t he?”

“Probably.”

“Betty Lou Jackson.”

“Ma’am?”

“That’s the slut’s name. She’s married to some electrical contractor now. Beckham, her name is. Acts like she’s as good as anybody, but she’s a tramp through and through.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Little.”

“Don’t thank me, because I never told you anything.”

The phone goes dead.

The nice thing about small towns is that it’s easy to find people. Directory assistance has only one Beckham listed. I’m starting to feel like I might solve the Payton case without ever leaving the car.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice.

“Is this Betty Lou Beckham?”

“Yes. I don’t use the ‘Lou’ anymore, though. It’s just Betty. Betty Beckham. Who is this?”

“This is Penn Cage, Mrs. Beckham.”

Deafening silence.

“Mrs. Beckham?”

“I’m real busy right now, Mr.—”

“I just wanted to ask you a couple of quick questions.”

“I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”