“You’re right,” I say to Malcolm.
Actually, I whisper it, which is silly since I’m still in the truck, still several yards away from the cemetery parking lot, but close enough to spy the Mercedes. It’s like a sleek black beetle, the paint gleaming in the late afternoon sun.
I stop the truck and put it in reverse. I inch backward and park on a lightly traveled side street.
I take my field kit even though I’m not certain what good coffee will do. The thermoses rattle. I unwind the scarf I’m wearing and weave it between the metal containers.
“I’m going to hop the fence so they don’t see me coming,” I tell Malcolm.
“You might as well,” he says. “According to the web page, the cemetery locks the gates at four.”
“Really?” I ask. “They have a web page?”
“Why not? We do.”
I walk the perime
