I needed thirty minutes to get my bearings, and the most efficient way to do it was to eat. I would need calories to help me during what could be a long day, so I gave Mabel my hand signal for one of their famous tuna melts. Her little wink let me know she understood.

The diner was busy and made a kind of relaxing noise. At least it was familiar and natural to me. After a few deep breaths, I looked up and saw an elderly woman from my route marching down the narrow space between the counter and booths, headed right for me. She lives on Robyn Drive and her name is Lois Moscowitz. I know most people’s addresses and whether they get the local paper, the New York Times, or the Wall Street Journal. This one is the local-only variety. She never broke stride until she plopped down in the booth across from me.

“Hello, Mrs. Moscowitz.”

“Mitchum, I need help.” She had that cute, friendly local accent that made it clear she had never lived in the city.

I said, “I’m kind of booked up right now.”

“But you’re the only one who can help me.”

“What’s wrong?” I looked up at the pass-through to the kitchen and stared lovingly at my tuna melt, which had just landed.

“My husband is missing.”

There were a lot of excuses I could make, but once I looked into those lonely brown eyes, all I could say was, “I’ll take the case.” I had to. I was the town’s unofficial PI. It was part of the job description. I knew enough people were looking for Bailey Mae at the moment that I wouldn’t make much difference, and this woman needed me right now.

Like a mind reader, Mabel had already wrapped my sandwich to go, tossed it across the counter to me, and blew me a kiss as I followed Mrs. Moscowitz out of the diner.

She sat straight and dignified in the passenger seat of my station wagon as Bart minded his manners and didn’t try to force his way to the front. I didn’t trust the little bugger enough to leave the sandwich back there, but it was good to know I had my buddy close by.

Mrs. Moscowitz didn’t say a word as we drove north on Route 9 toward Milton. She didn’t have to say anything; I knew where we were going.

I turned off the road and back toward a small private drive with a view of the Hudson. She glanced around but still didn’t say anything as I brought the station wagon to a stop. I scurried around the front of the car to open her door. The private cemetery covered about two acres and had a lovely picket fence around the border, with a narrow, winding road that cut through the property in a seemingly random route.