"Maybe she could tell us where they are. There must be some record somewhere."

"There probably is, but I say we should check the ones we can today and keep our fingers crossed that what we want is in one of them."

"Sounds like a plan. Hope you like country-western music. That's all my truck plays."

"As long as it's the old stuff."

"My kinda girl," he replied, putting on Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys.

We decided to start with the cemeteries closest to the Seven Sisters ranch then work our way north. By three o'clock we'd only investigated six with no luck. It was beginning to look like this would be more than a one-day undertaking. I had to force myself not to linger over the headstones, reading the inscriptions and wondering about the life of the person who died. The number of children's headstones amazed me, and by the early afternoon the constant reminder of the delicate thread by which our lives dangled started depressing me. Apparently it was starting to show after our seventh cemetery when Detective Hudson found me after going through my assigned section, sitting on the open tailgate of his truck hugging Scout.

"I think we need a break," he said. "You hungry?"

"Kinda." I glanced around the pine-shaded cemetery we'd just traipsed through. It was northeast of Paso Robles, an old cemetery that surrounded the Estrella Adobe, one of the many old adobes scattered around San Celina County. "No McDonald's out here. Guess we'll have to go into Paso Robles. The Paso cemetery will probably take us a long time. It's pretty big."

"No need for McDonald's. I brought lunch." He went around to the cab and brought out a small cooler from behind the front seat. "Do you want beef or turkey?" He held up two wrapped sandwiches.

"Beef."

He handed me the roast beef sandwich and a can of Coke, then joined me on the tailgate. Though it was in the high eighties, a light breeze blew through the stand of dusky green oaks the truck was parked under, and the air was scented with wildflowers and pines, smelling sugary and slightly burnt, reminding me of the Mexican sweet breads Elvia's mother baked at Christmas.

We ate without talking, occasionally feeding bits of our sandwiches to Scout. It was so quiet we could hear animal life rustling in the cottonwoods and scrub brush around us. When I tossed the last bite of my sandwich to Scout, I started picking burrs off the bottoms of my Wranglers, my thoughts drifting to all the mothers who'd lost so many babies. Was it worse to have one and lose it or never to have one at all? The old poet was convinced that loving and losing was better than never loving at all, and at twenty years old I probably would have agreed with him. There were times now I wasn't so sure.

Detective Hudson stood up, causing the pickup to raise slightly, and dusted his hands off on his thighs. "Ready to get going again?"

"Sure," I said, giving up on the dozens of burrs. It'd been so long since I'd been out hiking this time of year, I'd forgotten about these irritating little things.

I sat inside the cab, staring out the window as Detective Hudson chattered about something to do with a dalmatian he once owned. A thought was niggling at the back of my mind, just beyond my reach, and I couldn't grasp it. Something that wasn't right, about either something we'd just seen or something Mr. Foglino said. Detective Hudson's conversation switched to something about the Thursday-night farmer's market, and I continued to half listen and stare at the passing golden fields. In Paso Robles, we stopped at a mini-mart so I could buy some water for Scout. The detective watched as I poured water in my hand and let Scout drink.

"You've been too quiet. What's going on in that devious mind of yours?" he asked when we got back into the truck and headed up the hill toward the cemetery.

"Nothing." Which wasn't exactly a lie. I was thinking about something, I just didn't know what it was.

Paso Robles's cemetery was the second largest in San Celina County. It overlooked the city and the rest of the valley. In the distance, the mountains you had to drive through to get to Bakersfield and Fresno were sharp-etched against the cloudless sky. We divided up the rows and agreed to meet back in front of the adobe-style restrooms when we finished. There was one small funeral going on down near the entrance, but nothing in the areas we would be concentrating on.

I was walking up and down the rows looking for a carving that resembled a lily of the valley, studying marker after marker, going over each Brown family member in my mind-means, motive, opportunity, then trying to imagine each of them coldly shooting Giles. I hated to admit it, but the only one who had all three and who I thought capable of pulling the trigger was Cappy. But would she kill another human being just to protect her horses or her lifestyle? Then again, what about her sisters? JJ had said all the women knew how to shoot. Was I just being naive by assuming that Willow wouldn't kill for her political career or her granddaughter's reputation or Etta for the winery, or for that matter, Arcadia out of that age-old reason, jealousy? If Giles fooled around on her as much as people implied, she could have just gotten fed up that night and shot him. Happened all the time. Except it didn't fit with the conversation I heard or the fact that someone had called the paper and said there would be something "big" happening at Seven Sisters that night. I ruled out Arcadia. If she'd shot him because of his affairs, it made more sense for it to happen at another time, though I was the first to concede that many homicides weren't planned, but were emotional, spur-of-the-moment acts.

That still left Susa to consider-her peace-loving, hippie persona notwithstanding. What did anyone really know about her? After what JJ said about Giles coming on to her and Bliss, maybe there was something he did that caused their mother to lose her gentle manner for a split second. Though she had spent most of her adult life away living on a commune, she was still raised by Capitola Brown, who would not have allowed shrinking violets to grow on the Seven Sisters ranch. Then there was Chase, certainly capable of pulling the trigger, though, as far as I could see, no reason to. Then again, he was the one left with the cute little tasting room girl in the tight red jeans. Could it have been an argument over something as trivial as who gets her next?

No matter which family member did it, there was no doubt in my mind that Cappy and her sisters were sharp enough and cool enough under pressure to cook up that gun switching scene even with a houseful of guests, including a chief of police. One thing I knew from watching my cousin Emory: Growing up with money often gave you a sense of invincibility, a feeling of entitlement that enabled you to forge ahead when others would hesitate. It could be an endearing trait, like Emory's pursuit of Elvia, an obnoxious one, like Giles's cavalier affairs, or a deadly one, like the killing of Giles Norton.

I started down another row, where a monument with a headless angel was laced with scarlet wild fuchsia. GONE HOME stated the simple words on the base under the name CAMPBELL-1902-1958. I leaned against the warm marble and wondered what had happened to the angel's head and how one went about replacing something like that. I was idly looking out over the green cemetery lawns, brightly splashed with dots of yellow goldenrod, when it hit me.

There were no dates chiseled on the Brown baby's headstones.

I rushed across the smooth grass to Detective Hud, who was ten rows away, and told him what I'd discovered.

"So?" he said, not nearly as excited as I was.

"So, that means something. Look at all the children's graves we've seen. They've all had the birth and death dates."

"Not that graveyard in Estrella," he pointed out.

I impatiently waved his words away. "A lot of those people couldn't afford expensive headstones. The Browns could. Why wouldn't they put the dates on the headstones?"

"Maybe because they didn't feel like it. You're reaching for something that isn't there. I think you've been in the sun too long."

"You're jealous because I thought of it and you didn't."

"And you're delusional. Go back to the truck and have a Coke."

"I'm sure I've hit on something, and we're not getting anywhere trying to chase down a headstone that resembles this rubbing. We could be looking for days, and I haven't got that much time. In case you forgot, this isn't my my real job. Let's go back to San Celina's Cemetery." real job. Let's go back to San Celina's Cemetery."

"Even if you have hit on something, and I'm not saying you have, what possible good is going back?"

"We could ask Mr. Foglino. He knows tons of stuff about people buried in the cemetery and he's belonged to the historical society for fifty years. If anyone would know why the tombstones are blank, he would." I started back toward the truck. "Are you coming or not?"

He trotted up beside me. "We really should finish looking through this cemetery. We're just going to have to come back if you're wrong."

"I'm not wrong." Before he could answer, I added, "But even if if I am wrong, I won't be coming back, you will, so it doesn't matter to me." I am wrong, I won't be coming back, you will, so it doesn't matter to me."

"Don't you have a cell phone? Can't we just call him?"

"No phone in the maintenance shed."

He complained under his breath, but kept following me. On the ride back down the grade toward San Celina, I chewed my thumbnail, hoping I wasn't leading us on a wild-goose chase. When we reached the San Celina's Cemetery, I jumped out before he switched off the engine, called out at Scout to stay, and ran over to the maintenance building. Mr. Foglino was just locking the weathered steel door.

"I'm glad I caught you," I said, panting.

"Whoa, slow down there, missy," he said, pocketing his huge set of keys. "What's up?"

Detective Hudson walked up beside me, then stood there with his arms folded and his legs spread, his body language stating his feelings about this extra trip. I ignored him and asked Mr. Foglino, "Why don't the four Brown girls' markers have dates on them?"

An almost indiscernible grunt came from behind me.

"Now, that's a real good question," he said, glancing over at the disparaging expression on Detective Hudson's face. "You've got a sharp eye."

I turned and gave the detective a triumphant look. He rolled his eyes and impatiently shifted from one foot to the other.

"Did he ever find himself a men's room?" Mr. Foglino asked.

"Ignore him," I said. "Tell me the story behind the markers."

"I reckon it's not real common knowledge, having happened so long ago and all, but the reason there's no dates is cause those little babies aren't really buried there."

A tiny jolt of electricity sparked at the base of my neck. "Why not?"

"Story goes that Rose Brown was so distraught over the death of her babies in such a short period, her family didn't want her reminded of them when she visited the family graves. Both her sisters and her mother's buried here. They all died during a flu epidemic, as well as some Brown cousins and John Madison Brown's father and mother, who came to live out here from Virginia after the Depression took everything they owned. Rose Brown used to come once a week with roses for all her kinfolk's graves until she went to live in that retirement home a few years ago."

"But there are markers for the babies now."

"That eldest Brown girl, Cappy, had them made up when her mother stopped coming to the graves."

"But she didn't have the bodies moved back?"

"No, guess she figured to leave well enough alone. Or maybe she's thinking about doing it after her mother passes on. Who knows with that Brown family? They've sure done a lot for our community, but I'm not sure the whole group is wound as tightly as they could be."

"What did the babies die from?"

He stuck his dirt-stained hands in the pockets of his overalls. "Don't recall hearing what happened. I'm sure it's in some old records. Back then-this was about 1926 or'27-babies were dying of all sorts of things that they can cure nowadays-flu, diphtheria, scarlet fever, measles, just plain old infections."

"Excuse me, I need to check in at the office," Detective Hudson broke in. He turned and strode away across the graves toward his truck.

"What's his problem?" Mr. Foglino asked, his dark, thick eyebrows a fuzzy hood over his amused eyes.

"He thinks I'm being silly."

"Don't you have enough problems with one police officer in your life?" he asked.

"Detective Hudson is not in my life in my life. We're just working on this case together. So, you wouldn't happen to know where the babies are buried, would you?" I looked at him hopefully. At that point, I was willing to bet that grave rubbing we had would find a match when we found the babies' real graves.

"Sure do, out in Adelaida Cemetery. If I'd known that was who you was looking for, I could've told you earlier. They're up on the hill part of the cemetery, if I recall correctly. Only reason I know that is my mother's best friend's neighbor was the Brown's nanny for a little while. Remember hearing about the babies being buried up there back when I was just a little tyke."

"Was it common knowledge?"

"Don't really know, but I doubt it. It was so long ago, and no one thought overly much about babies dying back then. It happened in almost every family. Probably most people assumed they were buried here, and no one probably ever checked. Like I said, only reason I knew was because my mother and her friend talked about the oddness of them burying the babies so far from the family."

"It is odd. Adelaida Cemetery is pretty far away and over the pass. It would have been a difficult trip back in the twenties."

"Probably isn't even active anymore. Those old cemeteries are a pain to upkeep. That one's got so many trees and hills and rocks. I haven't been there in years, but I'll bet it's gone completely wild unless someone's taken a notion to keep it up."

"Guess we'll go out and look for them."

"If you can talk your antsy-pants friend into it. He didn't appear to be real enthusiastic."

"If he won't go, I'll go on my own."

Mr. Foglino took his hands out of his pockets and scratched behind a bristly ear, his broad, tanned face troubled. "Be careful out there, missy. It's pretty desolate. Take that dog with you."

"I intend to. Thanks for the information."

He gave a curt nod. "Anytime."

I started to walk away, then turned around and asked one more question. "Your mother's best friend's neighbor. Do you remember her name?"

"Mrs. Knoll. Don't recall hearing her first name. Doubt she'd even be alive, though. I'm guessin' she'd be in her late nineties if she was."

"Thanks." As I walked toward the truck where Detective Hudson leaned against the side, his legs and arms crossed, I wrote Mrs. Knoll's name down on the back of my checkbook register.

"What're you writing down?" Detective Hudson asked.

"Just something I need to pick up at the store," I lied. Something inside told me to keep Mrs. Knoll's name to myself until I figured out how she fit into the picture.

"What did the old man tell you?"

"The babies' real graves are in Adelaida Cemetery. I want to go see them. Bet you fifty bucks we find the lily of the valley carved on them." I gave Scout a quick scratch under the chin, then climbed up in the cab of the truck. Proud of my detecting work, I smirked at Detective Hudson when he climbed behind the wheel.

He pulled out the San Celina County map, scanned it, and immediately started complaining. "This place is in the hills outside of Paso Robles! We just came from there. It's almost five o'clock. We'll never make it out there and back in time for my date at six-thirty."

"Drop me off at the folk art museum, then," I said evenly. "I'll drive out there myself. I'll call you tomorrow and let you know what I find." I turned and smiled at him. "You certainly don't want to keep Bambi waiting."

His face was puzzled. "Huh?"

"Miss Bodice Ripper," I clarified.

He frowned. "Her name's Heidi."

I turned my face to the window, hiding my smile. "Of course."

"Leave my love life out of this."

"You brought it up."

"This Adelaida Cemetery is out in the boonies. I'm not letting you go out there by yourself."

I turned back to him and said, "Excuse me, but you do not have the authority to keep me from going anywhere I please. Besides, I grew up in this county. I'm less likely to get in trouble out in Adelaida than you are."

His face turned a dull red as he started the engine, released the emergency brake, and slammed the truck into reverse. "We could do this tomorrow." Rocks and gravel scattered as he gunned the engine and pulled too quickly out of the cemetery's parking lot.

I swung around and made sure we hadn't lost Scout, who was doing his best to get a toe-grip on the detective's plastic-lined truck bed. "Take it easy, rhinestone cowboy, I've got a beloved dog in the bed of this city-boy truck. And I'm not waiting until tomorrow to find out if the rubbing is from the Brown sisters' graves, and frankly I'm surprised you want to."

"Heidi hates being kept waiting," he grumbled.

"Then take me back to the museum, and I'll-"

"If I let you go out there alone and you get hurt, your husband will have my head, not to mention other parts of my body to which I've become quite emotionally attached. No way, ranch girl. We're going there together, look for these stupid graves, and then we're through for the day."

"You know, I can't believe you're not more excited about this. It's a break in the case."

"More like a paper cut."

"Who knows what it could lead to? Quit being so close-minded. I swear, those blasted police academies need a creative-thinking class. You cops have thinking skills as narrow as a possum's tail. This will give you a whole new line of questioning for the Brown family."

"What do you know? I have an extraordinary conviction rate so I must be doing something right."

"Dumb luck, most likely."

"And for your information, that Brown clan is one extraordinarily tight-lipped bunch. I've interviewed Cappy Brown and her sisters three times and gotten squat. Half my questions their attorney won't even let them answer. Except for the younger ones, who are not privy to any of the family's secrets, a person would have a better chance finding out the recipe for Coca-Cola than a truthful answer from that group. And for all your bragging, I didn't see you doing any better."