“What’s his test?”

“He had a pet name he called her. If they can’t tell him what it is, he knows it’s not her.”

“When you say a while, how long are we talking about? A few years?”

Her eyebrows rose. “Try forty.”

“Forty years,” I said. “He’s been traveling the country for forty years looking for his wife?”

She nodded. “He’s spent his life and fortune trying to find her. At least that’s what he told me when he signed up for the tour.”

“Doesn’t he have any family?”

“He has four adult children. Sounds like he’s estranged from them. I guess he was pretty broken up about losing her.” Doreen read the look of disapproval on my face, then said, “I know, I wouldn’t do it. But you can’t judge someone until you’ve walked in their moccasins, can you? So have you found anyone tonight?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“Well let’s get busy,” she said.

For the next half hour Doreen followed me around the cemetery looking for traces of paranormal activity. My lines crossed several times—actually, several dozen times—and, at Doreen’s encouragement, I found myself in a one-sided conversation with a grave marker named Mary Stewart. My divining rods had rotated backward and Doreen was certain that Mary’s spirit was hugging me.

I’ll admit to one peculiar phenomenon. I kept feeling the sensation of walking through spiderwebs, even when I was out in the open.

An hour later as we reboarded the van, the two women were chatting excitedly, one claiming she’d found a spirit who knew her recently deceased grandmother. The honeymooners were still just staring at each other, clearly desperate to get back to the hotel.

Mr. Lewis was the last to return, only doing so at Doreen’s insistence. As he struggled into the van he looked sad or angry, I couldn’t really tell which, as his face was sufficiently hard that it was difficult to read any emotion except unhappiness. Watching him had a powerful effect on me.

The van took a circuitous route back to Doreen’s office, passing by a series of buildings that were supposedly haunted, including the Old Catholic Church, which was up for sale. Doreen told us that one of her clients claimed to have placed a recorder in the church and, within minutes, recorded the sound of an invisible choir.

A few blocks past the Old Church, Doreen pointed out a Victorian home. “Up ahead here, to your left, is LaBinnah Bistro. I recommend that you eat there if you get the chance. Can anyone figure out where the restaurant got its name?”

We all looked out at the building, even the honeymooners.

“It’s French,” one of the women said.

“Or Cajun,” said the other.

“No, that’s not it,” Doreen said.