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.

I frowned after her, hoping I hadn't made a big mistake.