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MY PHONE rang and my mother’s picture came up on the phone. I didn’t want to answer, but I did.
“Hi, Mom. Where are you?”
“In Paris for a few appearances. What’s this fucking shit about Curtis writing your books?”
I sighed. “It’s a lie.”
“I thought so, but then I also thought that might explain a lot.”
I closed my eyes and counted to ten. “I’m sorry to confirm, Mother, that I write my own books.”
She sighed. “Okay. Well, I can’t fucking sleep, so why don’t you read me one of your books?”
My eyes popped open. “Really?”
“To put me to sleep.”
I frowned. “Can’t you take something?”
“I can’t get fucking Ambien in Europe, and I forgot to stock up when I was in New York.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. Not sorry. “Hey, I have some good news.”
“Let’s fucking hear it.”
“I’m making good progress on the book. I’m really finding my groove here. I write in a cemetery, if you can believe that. Oh, and Bruce says the buyer at Clifton’s is going to triple their order of this title, and Book Bin is going to follow suit. He says with this kind of retail support, it could even hit the Times list. Wouldn’t that be great?”
Silence.
“Mom?”
A snoring sound came over the phone. I sighed, then ended the call.
August 30, Friday
WHEN I saw the charter bus lurch by on the road to the cemetery, I grabbed a flashlight and tore off after it.
The white-headed leader of the tour, Edra Waco, according to the business card she’d given me, was in fine form, dressed in a deep red flowy garment trimmed in black, with a black hat and netted veil. I hung back while she gave her spiel to the crop of new tourists about the history and lore of the witches in the Whisper Graveyard. She made a point of showing them Rose’s gravestone and once again said the woman had died under suspicious circumstances. And somehow she knew about the slab of granite that had recently been disturbed on Nell Benson’s grave.
So the woman had an informant.
When the tour ended and she was shepherding everyone back onto the bus, I waved to get her attention.
“You’re still here?” she asked lightly.
I frowned. “Yes. I’d like to talk to you.”
“You want your palm read? Sure, make an appointment.”
“I want you to tell me how much of this is true.” I put Wayne Blakemore’s manuscript in her hand.
She studied the cover but maintained a poker face. “Okay, but it’ll cost you. I’ll look it over and send you an invoice. Then we’ll meet.”
“You’ll have to come here. I don’t have a car.”
“I do Zoom readings. And I take Venmo. I’ll be in touch.”
She tucked the manuscript under her jacket, then climbed onto the bus.
