The rest of us were left to amuse ourselves as best we could. A number of cars slowed and then moved on. As is usual, bystanders had begun to assemble. I assumed some were neighbors and others driving past the scene on the way home from work who had spotted the police cars and pulled in to see what was going on. There was nothing to do and not much to say after the first scanty explanations were passed along to new arrivals. People lingered, unwilling to leave before the final moments had played out. It was like being in a waiting room while someone else is giving birth. There was no drama in our immediate vicinity, but we all knew something important was going on. Such gatherings are often written off as morbid curiosity, looky-loos hoping for a glimpse of the injured or the dead. I prefer to attribute the behavior to a sense of community, people drawn together in the face of inconceivable tragedy.

Sutton had returned to the parking area and I could see him talking to a man nearby, filling him in. It was a story he’d tell repeatedly if Mary Claire’s body came to light. Madaline, still wearing her short shorts, had pulled on a pair of leggings and a loose-necked sweatshirt that hung off one shoulder, exposing the same tank top I’d seen earlier. She sat in Sutton’s MG smoking cigarettes with the passenger-side door open. I’d spent half a day in Sutton’s company and I already felt a motherly urge to warn him about skanks and tramps like her.

“What’s going on?”

I looked to my right and found a woman standing next to me, early thirties by my guess. She had shiny shoulder-length brown hair, blunt cut and very straight. Her glasses were frameless and the lenses accented the brown eyes behind them.

I said, “The police may have a line on an unsolved case.”

“Really. What’s the deal?”

“Remember when Mary Claire Fitzhugh disappeared? Someone came forward with information about two guys digging what might turn out to be her grave.”

We exchanged idle remarks with our attention turned toward Alita Lane. I glanced at her outfit—brown blazer, tweed skirt, black tights, loafers—wondering how she managed to look so sensible and stylish at the same time.

“Where’d the tip come from?” she asked.

“Someone read an article about the kidnapping. He thinks he might have stumbled on the burial when he was a kid.”

“Wow. That would be a break after all this time,” she remarked. “So what’s your connection?”

“I’m a PI in town. I know Cheney Phillips, the lead investigator.”

“Cool. I’ve known Cheney for years.”

“What about you? How’d you end up here?” I asked.

“I work for the Dispatch. One of the guys picked up chatter about it on the scanner and sent me to see what was happening.”