“Perfect,” Angie said, and put her bag on a picnic table topped with a huge sun umbrella and spread with a bright yellow-and-pink tablecloth. There was a pitcher of lemonade and one of sweet tea, a number of covered dishes, and a tub of ice. There were also four reclining lawn chairs with pillows, a paper fan sitting on each of them. “You didn’t have to do all this,” Angie said.

“But we’re glad you did,” Rivera added, scooping ice into her hand and holding the cubes to her neck. “We need a home base. We’re not paying him enough, Angie.”

“You’re not paying me anything at all,” Markus said.

“See?” said Rivera.

Markus looked uncomfortable at the mention of money. “It was all Miss Zula and Miss Maddie who arranged all this,” he said. “You know Miss Maddie has been on the Jubilee committee for forty years? Folks will tell you it was the preachers from all the different churches who were behind the push to integrate the Jubilee—this was back in the sixties—but it was Miss Maddie pushing the preachers.”

Tony looked up from his viewfinder. “Where are the Braggs, anyway?”

“Over at the Kiwanis tent,” said Markus. “I’m supposed to take you over there.”

“Right,” said Tony. “Lead on to the pancakes.”

By ten o’clock Angie needed a break, so she headed back to their base under the oaks, where she found Miss Zula and Miss Maddie sitting comfortably in the shade, surrounded by some fifty of their closest relatives. Angie had never seen the three nephews in anything but suits, but today they were wearing Hawaiian shirts and Bermuda shorts and baseball caps. There was a sleeping toddler sprawled across Dr. Bragg’s lap—which one of the dozens of younger Braggs, Angie could not say—and a hound of some kind sitting at his feet, panting madly. She shot a half dozen frames before the doctor realized she was there, and then went to the table where Rivera was pouring her a tumbler of sweet tea.

Rivera squinted up at Angie and inclined her head toward the old women, who were admiring a baby with a great ruffle of chins and dimpled knees.

“It’s like a court session,” Rivera told Angie. “Everybody comes to pay their respects. Half the board of regents has been by already, and every preacher from every church.”

Angie took a long swallow, closed her eyes in appreciation, and took another. Her tank top was already soaked through with perspiration; her hair, bundled up under her sun visor, was just as wet at the scalp.

“You getting anything?”

Angie said, “Lots of good sound bites, seven interviews set up for next week, twice that many invitations to supper, and a couple dozen questions about the contents of my picnic basket.”