October 21, Monday

THE CRUNCH of tires on gravel pulled me from my writing trance. I peered out the window to see a familiar black sedan rolling to a stop in front of the house. Detective Jack Terry unfolded his tall frame from the driver's seat, his face set in grim lines.

I met him at the door, curiosity and apprehension warring in my stomach. "Detective Terry, this is a surprise."

He nodded, his eyes scanning the property behind me. "Ms. Vanguard. Mind if I come in? I have a few questions."

I stepped aside, gesturing him into the living room. I uncovered two chairs for us. He perched on the edge of an armchair, looking comically large in the delicate antique furniture.

"What can I do for you, Detective?" I asked, settling across from him.

"How well did you know Wayne Blakemore?"

The question caught me off guard. "Not very well. We'd met a few times at his bookshop. Why do you ask?"

Jack's fingers went to his wedding ring, spinning it absently. "Just looking into all the recent incidents in Irving. Seeing if there's any connection."

"Connection?" I echoed. "Between Wayne's death and the vandalism, you mean?"

He shrugged, but his eyes were sharp. "Possibly. And other... events."

I leaned back, studying him. "It's nice of the Atlanta PD to loan you out to Birmingham for this. Must be a slow crime week back home."

A ghost of a smile flitted across Jack's face. "This is more of a... personal inquiry. Off the record."

Hm. "Well, as I said, I didn't know Wayne all that well. He asked me to do a signing at his store, and that was nice. He wanted to write and he asked me read a book he'd written."

He wrote in a small notebook. "What kind of book?"

"Fiction—it was a novel."

He smiled. "Was it any good?"

"I've read worse. Why are you asking about Wayne? Didn't he die of natural causes?"

The big man nodded. "Pending an autopsy. I'm only asking because it happened so close to the grave-robbing incident. I understand Wayne and Rose had dated at some point."

"That was before I arrived," I said. "Are there any leads on the vandalism or the… grave-robbing?"

He closed his notebook and frowned. "No." He pushed to his feet and walked toward the front door. "If you think of anything else—"

"I still have your card, Detective."

"Good," he said, then his expression softened. "Thank you for taking care of the graveyard."

"It's only temporary," I reminded him.

"Still," he said. "It's… much appreciated."

I inclined my head. "You're welcome."

I followed him out to his car and noticed a bouquet of flowers on the seat. He gave a wave, then headed toward the graveyard, no doubt to leave the flowers on Serena's grave.

The detective's questions, his "off the record" investigation, the way he kept fidgeting with his wedding ring... It all painted a picture of a man who couldn't let go of the past.