"Is there anything else you need?" I asked. "I've told you everything I know. Scout's honor."

Scout's ears perked up at the sound of his name.

Detective Hudson searched my face with wary eyes, then concluded, "You're telling the truth."

"You wouldn't know the truth if it bit you in the butt."

"Exactly what does the chief do to shut that smart-ass mouth of yours?"

"Good-bye, Detective Hudson."

He didn't budge.

"What else do you want? I've told you everything I know. Now go do your cop stuff." I waved him away.

He pulled a white sheet of paper from inside his tweed, cowboy-cut jacket. "I have a list of the nineteen cemeteries in San Celina County."

"We have that many cemeteries?"

"Want to go grave hunting?"

I hesitated. To be honest, although the thought of going with him anywhere was not the least bit appealing, the possibility of traipsing through graveyards was. I'd always been fascinated by graveyards, especially the old ones and to actually have a mission, the hunt for this mysterious tombstone with the lily of the valley carving, was tempting.

"Look out, she's weakening," he said, amused.

I glanced over at the phone, causing him to smirk.

"Need to call the chief and ask permission?" he asked. I glared at him. "No."

"Then let's go."

I thought for a minute, then said, "Why don't we split the list and get back with each other later? That would be the smartest thing to do."

"No way, Detective Harper. With my luck, you'll find what we're looking for and then hold the information for ransom."

"I would not! You make me sound like a criminal or something."

"Outside of her own family, you are are the only one involved in this case with personal ties to Cappy Brown." the only one involved in this case with personal ties to Cappy Brown."

I stood up and faced him. "Look, Detective, if-and I'm saying if-Cappy did kill Giles Norton, I would never protect her from prosecution and I resent you implying I would."

He dangled the sheet of paper in my face. "So, what's keeping you?"

I grabbed the list and scanned it. "I have to be back by six o'clock."

"No problem, I have a date anyway. Say, do you have a camera?"

I gave him an exasperated look while opening the bottom drawer of my desk and pulling out the small telephoto Canon I use around the museum. "For someone who claims to be so good at his job, you sure are unprepared."

"But I always manage to get my man . . . or woman. My conviction rate was the talk of the Houston PD."

"Right, and your mother trains tigers for the circus."

"Actually," he said, switching off the office light as we left, "Mother did work for Barnum and Bailey's once. She was . . ."

I groaned loudly, trying to drown out the latest lie. "I don't want to hear it."

"A clown," he finished.

"How appropriate. How utterly appropriate."

He insisted on driving, reasoning that not only could he deduct mileage whereas I couldn't, his truck was newer, had air-conditioning and a CD player. I didn't like him being in the driver's seat, literally or figuratively, but also couldn't argue his points. The temperature was already in the high eighties, and some of the cemeteries were over the grade in North County where it would most likely reach the nineties. With Scout riding happily in back, we started with the biggest cemetery, San Celina's.

In the cemetery's parking lot, my eyes darted briefly over to the newer section where my mother and Jack were buried. A tinge of sadness struck me, like it always did when I came here. I hadn't brought flowers to their graves for a couple of months. Maybe tomorrow after work . . .

"Everything okay?" Detective Hudson had obviously caught my glance. You couldn't fault the guy's visual acuity.

"Fine," I said, closing the truck door. "Let's check the Brown family section first. It makes sense that he'd be blackmailing them with something from their own family."

He came around the truck and stood next to me. "Now, that's right smart. Where is this Brown section?"

"I have no idea, but I know who will. And I bet I could show him the rubbing and he'd be able to identify it in two seconds if it's anywhere in San Celina's Cemetery."

"You're not showing that to anyone," Detective Hudson stated flatly. "That's the only lead we have in this case, and the less people who know about it, the better."

"But it would make it so much easier-"

"No."

"Fine, we'll waste time traipsing around graveyards when we don't have to. Makes sense to me."

"Benni, you . . ."

I told Scout to stay in the truck and took off across the green expanse of the cemetery lawn toward the gardener's stone building, not interested in hearing anything he had to say starting with the word "you." Inside, Mr. Foglino was tinkering with an old riding mower.

"Hey, Mr. Foglino."

"Well, hello, Benni Harper," he said, standing up and wiping his greasy hands on the thighs of his gray mechanic's overalls. Mr. Foglino had been the head custodian at San Celina High School for thirty-two years. We'd all loved his wry, gentle sense of humor and the Tootsie Roll pops he passed out with gruff impartiality. When he retired, he went to work for his son who owned two local mortuaries and the San Celina's Cemetery. He'd overseen the digging of Jack's grave and many other San Celinans' graves with the same serious respect he'd exacted over the shiny floors of San Celina High School. Mr. Foglino knew a lot of secrets about the families in this town, including who visited whose graves, how many times, how often, and why. Like a good bartender, he'd probably heard more confessions than Father Mark down at St. Celine's Catholic Church and was just as discreet. He'd caught me a time or two sitting on Jack's grave, my face slick with tears, and wordlessly handed me a package of tissues from his overalls' deep pockets before going back to his mowing.

"How's life treating you?" I asked.

"Can't complain. Got job security and a new recliner. Life's good."

I laughed and gave him a quick hug. "I have a question for you. Where's the Brown section?"

I didn't have to say which Browns. His bushy gray eyebrows raised in question told me he knew who I was talking about.

"That family's sure had its sorrows," he said, scratching his cheek absentmindedly, leaving a thin streak of black oil on a cheek as weathered as barn siding. "Then again, haven't we all?"

"Yes, we have."

"How's that grandma of yours? Tell her I'm sure looking forward to Christmas and some of her delicious fudge. I dole it out to myself a piece a day to try and make it last longer."

"She's feisty as ever. I'll tell her to make you a double batch this year."

"And your daddy?"

"He's good. Been having trouble with some new heifers he bought up north. Prolapsed uterus and some leg problems in one. It's getting better now, though. His arthritis has been acting up a little."

"I hear you there. I tell you, getting old isn't for weaklings. You give him my sympathy."

"Sure will."

"Heard your cousin's back in town."

"Yes, sir. He works for the paper."

"He was a good, respectful boy, I remember."

"Yes, he was. He's grown into a nice man, too."

"Well, that's real fine."

I could hear Detective Hudson shift behind me, then let out an impatient breath. I ignored him. The one thing about Mr. Foglino was you couldn't rush him.

"So," Mr. Foglino said. "Hear you got yourself involved with another family's hullabaloo."

"Not on purpose. I was just there when it happened. I..." Then I grinned at him. "Well, yes, I guess I have. But I'm doing my best to stay away from any large falling objects."

He chuckled and wagged a crooked, dirt-stained finger at me. "You're a trial to that husband of yours, missy. You know that?"

"So I've been told a few times."

"How's he doing?"

"Ornery as ever, but I guess I'll keep him."

"He's a good police chief. We're lucky to have him."

"I think so."

I heard Detective Hudson shift behind me again and clear his throat. I turned around and frowned him silent.

Mr. Foglino looked back down at the engine of the rider mower. "Over east of the pyramid, and there's a restroom over there, too, for your ants-in-the-pants friend." He looked up, his pale old eyes amused. "I'm assuming that's why he's dancing around like that."

"Thanks," I said, winking at him. "I'll give Dove and Daddy your regards."

"That was a waste of a good half hour," Detective Hudson grumbled.

I cut across the springy graveyard grass weaving around gravestones. "You know," I said over my shoulder, "you'd get a lot more information out of people around here if you learned how to chitchat a little."

He grunted in reply.

We passed by the famous pyramid mausoleum with the single name WYLIE on the front. Made of concrete and patterned after the real Egyptian pyramids, it was an incongruous monument among the sedate white headstones and moss-covered angels that decorated most of the older graves. It had been there since the forties, and, as usual, there was scattered around the base the remnants of a teenager's late-night visitation, half burnt incense sticks, empty beer and soda cans, candy wrappers, crispy matchsticks. I remember sneaking out here a few times myself when I was in high school, spurred on by giggling friends and the natural attraction of being scared common in most people under twenty. It was regularly patrolled by police officers who calmly shooed its nocturnal visitors away. From the base, you could also see with great clarity the last drive-in theater screen in the county, a mute but irresistible draw to cash-strapped students looking for a cheap date.

"What's the story behind this thing?" Detective Hudson asked.

"From what I was always told, some rich rancher moved here early in the century and built this for his wife and three sons. The youngest son got in a fight with the father and left the ranch to find his fortune in Alaska. The other two stayed home, never married, and worked the ranch. All of them eventually died, leaving no heirs. They were entombed here according to the father's wishes. Everyone except the third son. According to the terms of the will, the monument can't be permanently closed until the last son's body is reunited with the family."

"Which is probably the last thing on earth he'd he'd want," Detective Hudson said, his voice suddenly bitter. want," Detective Hudson said, his voice suddenly bitter.

I glanced over at him, surprised.

His face stared at the pyramid with a raw, angry look that hardened his farm-boy features. He caught my glance, and just as quickly a smile replaced the angry look. "Time's a-wastin', ranch girl. Which way?"

Puzzled by his swift change of emotion, I pointed to a group of expensive headstones behind the pyramid. He strode away from me, whistling a tuneless melody under his breath. I watched him, wondering what family situation he'd truly left behind in Texas.

We glanced over the fifteen stones that made up the Brown family plot. Inside the square concrete edging around John Madison Brown's and Rose Jewel Brown's large, dark granite headstones were the four tiny headstones of the babies who'd died. Just the baby's names and a small lamb were carved on each one-Daisy Jewel Brown, Dahlia Jewel Brown, Beulah Jewel Brown, Bethany Jewel Brown. I stared at the tiny headstones while Detective Hudson went from headstone to headstone looking for something that resembled the grave rubbing.

"Not a lily to be seen, carved or otherwise," he called.

On Rose Brown's stone her name and birthdate were already chipped into the black shiny granite. The only thing left to fill in was her day of death. I wondered if it bothered her to have a headstone with her name already chiseled in. I knew death was inevitable for all of us, but that was just a little too organized and concrete for me. I'd bought two plots side by side when Jack died, having been encouraged to do so by the mortuary, but buying and carving a headstone-that was a little too obsessively neat and tidy. Look at me now, married to Gabe. Where did I want my earthly remains to rest? Next to Jack or to Gabe? Which was more appropriate? Should Gabe be buried next to the mother of his child to make it easier for Sam and his future children to visit their graves? And really, did it matter? Multiple marriages sure made the business of dying complicated.

Oh, honeybun, Dove's voice sang in my head. Dove's voice sang in my head. What does it matter where your old bones are when your soul is dancing with Jesus? What does it matter where your old bones are when your soul is dancing with Jesus?

"Nothing even close here," he said, coming back to where I stood. "What're you looking at?"

"Just these tiny headstones. Wondering what it was like for a mother to lose four of her seven children."

"Guess that's how it was back then. Even the rich didn't have access to very good health care."

"No one ever mentioned what they died of."

"With no antibiotics and horrible sanitary conditions, it could have been something as simple as the flu or as complicated as TB or diphtheria. It's a wonder as many people lived as they did. Dangerous times to be a kid . . . or an adult, for that matter."

"On the other hand, we've got drug-resistant bacteria and AIDS now, so who's to say it's any better?"

"Good point." He pushed his cowboy hat back on his head. "So, this didn't tell us much. Let's try the next one."

"Let me see that list," I said when we were situated back in his truck. "We should do this in a methodical way so we're not wasting time running all over creation. Do you have a map of San Celina County?"

He nodded over at the glove compartment, and I pulled out a large, detailed map. In a half hour I had the quickest route planned for sixteen of the nineteen cemeteries.

"Three of these I've never heard of, and they're not on the map," I said.

"Deborah Schlanser, the very kind and gracious public librarian who looked them up for me, said six were inactive. A couple for quite a while."

"That might be why they're not on this map. They're probably old pioneer cemeteries."