presence immediately known, but took my time retying my lace.
“…must be family or friends, someone who is missing her. Surely one of them will come forward now that the story is front-page news,” Camille was saying.
“One would hope.”
A pause. “Whoever she is, she can’t be associated with Emerson. I think you understand what I’m saying. The last thing we need is some nosy reporter trying to connect this murder to the other one.”
“Both bodies were found in the same cemetery,” Devlin said. “A certain amount of speculation is to be expected.”
A tiny thrill prickled at the base of my spine. Another body had been found in Oak Grove?
The voices were closing in on me. I rose and made some noise on the stepping stones to give them fair warning. Even so, when they rounded the monument that had hidden me from their view, they both stopped cold.
I didn’t know why they seemed so shocked to see me or why the sight of them together made me so uncomfortable. I suspected the latter had something to do with the way Camille touched Devlin’s arm when she saw me on the path. The familiarity of that gesture struck me most of all because Devlin had always seemed so remote, so untouchable, but apparently not to Camille Ashby.
I pretended not to notice that touch or the glance they exchanged as I mustered up a pleasant greeting. “Oh, hello. I was just looking for you.”
“Aren’t you early?” Camille’s voice sounded tense.
Devlin glanced at his watch. “We said one so you’re right on time.”
I nodded, unexpectedly pleased by his defense. “I see the search is already underway.”
He cast a skyward glance. “It’s clouding up. We’re trying to beat the rain.”
“Then I suppose we should get down to business, as well,” Camille said, her tone brusque. “If you don’t mind, I’d like a moment with Amelia.”
“No problem.” Devlin stepped away and took out his phone.
I tried to focus on Camille, but I could feel his gaze lingering on me. It was a little disconcerting to be the target of all that intensity, and I found myself wishing that I’d taken a little more care with my appearance. My ponytail hung limp in the humidity and the only cosmetics I’d bothered with were SPF 30 and a liberal spritz of insect repellent. A more pulled together look, even for the cemetery, might have done wonders for my poise.
Camille, on the other hand, looked cool and collected even in the heat.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I said.
“No, it’s fine. I suppose I should thank you for being so prompt. Tardiness is all too pervasive these days and it’s a habit that I thoroughly detest.” Her brow smoothed and her voice gradually grew warmer. Her accent was beguilingly reminiscent of my mother and aunt’s, but the vowels were not as drawn out and the “ah” sound of her “I” was a little more subtle.
She looked different from the times I’d met with her in her office. I’d thought her attractive before, but the Camille Ashby who’d hired me to restore Oak Grove Cemetery had been a woman of indeterminate age and so prim and proper in manner and dress as to be the epitome of good breeding and old money.
In this incarnation she looked younger, fresher and a good deal more approachable in a crisp, white shirt tucked neatly into the waistband of her pressed jeans. Her blond hair, usually brushed into a sleek bob, had curled charmingly in the humidity, and without the filter of glasses, her eyes took on a deep, violet hue.
Devlin was her darker male counterpart—tall, cut and devastatingly masculine. Yesterday, I’d appreciated the superb fit of his shirt and trousers, and now I took note of the expert tailoring of his clothing, the expensive fabric and I realized yet again that he was no ordinary detective. He had a past, a background that I grew more and more curious about each time we met.
I was the odd man out here, neither fashionable nor fine-tuned in my baggy cargos and tank.
“I asked to meet with you here in the cemetery for a couple of reasons,” Camille said. “First, I need you present for this search. I don’t want there to be a question that the graves have been treated with anything but the utmost dignity and respect during this whole dreadful ordeal. And secondly…” Her gaze swept the cemetery and the crease reappeared between her brows. “To be perfectly frank, I find the amount of work still to be done quite alarming. I expected to see more progress.”
“I lost nearly a week to rain before this happened,” I reminded her.
“Regardless of rain or other setbacks, we agreed upon a time frame.”
“I’m well aware of my deadline, but I can’t start the cleanup until the site map is completed, and I can’t finish the map until I’m allowed back in here to photograph the old section. Nothing can be removed or cleaned until we have an accurate recording of prerestoration features.”
She considered the dilemma for a moment. “What if I could get you some help? Would that make the work go more quickly?”
I tried to remain diplomatic. “Volunteers are always welcome, but they’d have to be properly trained first and that can be time-consuming. I’ve seen too many instances where well-meaning locals descend upon an old graveyard with chain saws and axes and start hacking away at centuries-old vegetation without regard to design aesthetics or symbolic meaning.”
“Yes, I suppose that could be a problem,” she mused.
“Besides, I don’t think there’s cause for worry. We’re not that far off schedule, and as soon as I’m allowed back in, I’ll hire plenty of help. It’s a small cemetery. The cleanup will go quickly once everything is in place.”
“You’re the expert. I’ll leave the details to you, but please keep in mind that the work must be completed by the start of the fall semester and not one day later. This year marks Emerson’s bicentennial and the committee has decided to nominate Oak Grove for the National Register.”
That explained why time was suddenly of the essence after decades of shameful neglect.
Several responses leapt to mind, all of which I prudently kept to myself. Nor did I point out the difficulty of getting a graveyard, even one as old as Oak Grove, listed in the National Register of Historic Places. Camille Ashby would know as well as I the rigid criteria governing cemetery eligibility and how best to get around them.
So I smiled and nodded and assured her once again that barring any further complications, I would bring the project in on time and on budget.
Luckily, the ding of her phone alerted her to an incoming text and she became momentarily distracted as she scanned the message. “Something’s come up,” she said in a clipped tone and dropped the phone back into her bag. “I have to get back to the office. I’ll have someone on my staff contact you for regular progress reports.”
“That’s fine,” I murmured, although I hated nothing more than having someone watch over my shoulder.
She glanced at Devlin, who was still on the phone. “Tell John I’ll be in touch. And tell him…I’m counting on him. He’ll know what I mean.”
I watched her hurry away, annoyed with myself for allowing her to intimidate me. Whatever else I might be lacking, I had the utmost confidence in my professional abilities—even on cemeteries as run-down as Oak Grove. The process of stripping away years of neglect was akin to restoring an old painting. It took patience, skill and almost obsessive dedication.
In the two years since I’d started my business, I’d worked very hard to establish an impeccable reputation. No one could fault my education, but my age and slender portfolio some times worked against me, despite the fact that I’d spent the whole of my childhood and adolescence learning about cemetery upkeep from my father.
I considered myself a dedicated artisan, but I was also a businesswoman and I need Camille Ashby’s goodwill and glowing recommendation when the project was completed. So I swallowed my irritation and made a mental note to send her weekly updates, both written and visual, without her having to ask for them.
I had my back to Devlin while I waited for him to conclude his phone conversation, but once again, I knew the moment he stepped up behind me. The hair at my nape rose and I put up a hand to rub away the tingles as I turned to face him.
My father’s voice whispered a warning.
I took a deep breath and very deliberately closed him out.
“Did Camille leave?” Devlin asked.
The use of her first name did not escape me. “Yes. She had to get back to the office. I’m to tell you she’ll be in touch and that…she’s counting on you. She said you’d know what that meant.”
