CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Sycamore Ridge Cemetery is a two-acre strip of land that lies on a low bluff a half mile past the western edge of town. It’s bordered by an oil-topped county road on one side and the edge of the bluff on the other, with a perimeter marked by a century-old fence of wrought iron that’s overgrown with masses of honeysuckle. In the spring the ground is a carpet of wildflowers that ripple gently beneath the spreading branches of tall magnolias and ancient cedars. But now the grass lay in withered strips among a forest of tombstones that ranged from humble, homemade concrete slabs on up to the great granite and marble obelisks erected by the leading citizens of the previous century.

I had two reasons for attending Amanda Twiller’s four o’clock service. In the first place, it was the right thing to do since the family was well established in the community. And second, there is a strong belief among lawmen that oftentimes a killer can’t stay away from his victim’s funeral.

The Methodist bishop had sent a young man fresh from the seminary to function as Twiller’s assistant until he recovered from his wife’s death. Twiller started to read his wife’s favorite poem, but he broke down and the new preacher had to finish it for him. After a short eulogy, we sang “Amazing Grace,” and then the young man gave a closing prayer. And that was all. I saw no one that looked suspicious or stood out in the crowd of perhaps two hundred that showed up. Before I left the cemetery I asked the funeral director, an old hunting buddy of mine named Leonard Ott, to photocopy the guest register for me before he turned it over to the family.

*   *   *

I never made it to Walter’s office that afternoon. Two more minor shooting scrapes out in the country and a robbery attempt at the north boundary of the county kept the whole department tied up until well after dark. Everybody was grateful for the fall of night. The day had been miserably hot and dusty, and the very world itself seemed wilted under the burning sun.

I went home and took a quick shower and decided to turn in early. As I was brushing my teeth I looked out the bathroom window to see the waxing moon, now a thin, menacing crescent, where it hung red and ominous in the eastern sky. I peered at it and shuddered and said a silent prayer for rain and cool weather. Before it rose again the following night I would have yet another murder on my hands.