Free Now Let's Talk of Graves by Sarah Shankman Page A

locals called the neutral ground. The Buick crossed the streetcar tracks running down the middle of the neutral ground, turned, and headed back the other way, back downtown.
    “Did you see him?” Sam yelled at G.T., who nodded. The two of them stood on the streetcar tracks with hands out empty, rain pouring down their faces.
    They had both seen the driver for an instant, for a flash, inside the big, mothering Buick. Wearing a carnival mask.

Seven
    SIX WEEKS LATER Sam found herself once again on a plane about to land in New Orleans. They were almost in—the flat, timbered terrain giving way to the huge saucer of Lake Pontchartrain.
    She hadn’t thought she’d be back so soon, though her thoughts often turned to the city, to Kitty and her family, who’d been doubled over with grief when she’d left—and to Harry.
    He’d called her a couple of times in Atlanta, had sent her flowers once—violets, which she thought was awfully sweet, as was he—but he was also far too young, even for a flirtation, and far too far away.
    But now, as soon as she stepped off the plane, he was going to be right in her face. He’d called and said he’d meet her at the gate, and she’d said fine because there were a few things they needed to get squared away.
    Kitty had called the week before, an absolute wreck. It seems as though in settling Church’s estate they’d found he had a million dollars’ worth of life insurance payable to his daughter Zoe—but Tench Young, his old friend who’d written the policy, said, unh-uh, no way. Tench would be happy to pay the quarter-million policy Church had carried for many years, but the additional three-quarters Church had bought six months before he met his Maker in the middle of St. Charles, forget it.
    Tench said any policy held less than two years was subject to investigation.
    Investigation of what ? Sam demanded.
    Church’s death, Kitty answered.
    Does he think he killed himself? Does he think Church was driving the Buick? What the hell do the police say?
    Death by misadventure. They’re working on it.
    And until they catch the bastard who perpetrated the hi t- and-run, Tench gets to keep his money?
    He’s sicked Harry Zack on us.
    What?
    Harry’s running Preferred Reliance’s investigation.
    “It’s a hell of a thing, Harry,” she said to him, now walking down your standard gateway-to-hell airport passageway.
    He tried to take her garment bag, but she shrugged him off. She didn’t need someone who looked like JFK, Jr., in a beat-up old raincoat doing her favors, not if he was going to be on the other side. Because that’s why she was here—to see what she could do to help Kitty get Tench (and Harry) off her back, settle this issue, get Zoe her money, let the Lees get on with their lives.
    He kept walking, then finally shrugged.
    “It’s only business.” Though inside he wasn’t thrilled about Uncle Tench’s assignment either, except it had brought Sam back.
    “I thought you were an old friend of the Lees’, of Kitty’s. Wasn’t your big sister in Kitty’s court when she was—doo-dah—Queen of the May? Doesn’t that make them like blood sisters?”
    “Queen of Comus. That’s right, we’re all old friends.”
    “Guess I have a hard time seeing that, since Kitty says you’re the one going around asking the rude questions, looking for dirt on Church.”
    “And getting precious few answers.”
    “So give it up.”
    He shot her a look. “Do me a favor, Sam. Don’t bust my chops.”
    “You could have said no, thank you very much, Uncle Tench. You could have passed.”
    Harry thought about that for a minute, about that day Tench had called him into his big-as-a-battleship corner office. He’d been running his hands through his blond waves, saying: Son, ol’ Church was a friend, but you understand, this is bi’nis. Big bi’nis. He was chewing on his five-buck cigar. His little eyes were pale and cold, reminding Harry that he’d never really liked his