“Bibbits wants peace,” Ella Dane said, so here they were at Greeneburg Cemetery, under a statue of a horse with an empty saddle. Lacey had researched this spot while writing up a sample lesson plan and field trip for her education portfolio, in her junior year.
One of Greeneburg’s local heroes, General John Banister, was memorialized here. He had disappeared at Shiloh, leaving his horse wounded on the battlefield. The horse charged a union cannon and trampled five of the enemy. The general’s grieving family buried the horse, planting a garden of rosemary and lavender around the life-size bronze. When the lost general was discovered alive, operating a bakery under the name of Shemple in Princeton, New Jersey, in 1883, there was some talk of removing the statue. By then, it had become traditional for young men to propose marriage under the animal’s eyes, and its muzzle was gold with constant stroking, and anyway, Fly-by-Night had been a true hero of the Confederacy, even if General Banister unfortunately wasn’t.
“This is the perfect place for Bibbits,” Ella Dane said. She knelt beside the cooler and touched the dog’s head. “Isn’t it, baby?”
Lacey’s cell phone rang. She scrambled in her purse—was it Eric? She held the phone in her hands without looking at the screen and let it ring one more time before looking—make him wait for just a second longer—but it wasn’t him. The number was unfamiliar, the area code 803. “Hello?” she said cautiously.
“Ms. Miszlak? Ev Craddock. You left this number.”
Ev Craddock. How dare he call her, cluttering up her phone while she was waiting for Eric to call; he might call any second. Lacey bit the inside of her upper lip to keep from shouting at the man. “Thanks for getting back to me,” she said.
“You’ll want a room?” he said. “Off-season rates.”
A room, room for what? Oh yes, his beachside motel. “No, I wanted to talk to you about the house where you used to live, on Forrester Lane in Greeneburg.”
“You a reporter?”
“No. I live there.”
“You calling from the house?”
“No, I wanted to ask you a question. About your wife. About her trial.”
Everett Craddock gave a wet and rattling sigh. “You sure you want to know?”
Lacey instinctively wiped her own phone on her sleeve. “The newspaper said the jury came back in only forty-five minutes, and I was wondering why were they so quick?” Another death rattle from the phone. “Please,” Lacey said. “I’ve been living in the house. I’m pregnant. I really need to know.”
“I bet you do. Her clothes were wet. Tyler had bruises on his head, matched her hands. Couple of his hairs under her fingernails. She done it, no question. You want to know more, you come down here.”
Lacey patted Fly-by-Night’s golden nose. “Is there more to tell?”
“You left the house?” Ev Craddock asked.
“Yes, I’m done with it.”
“It ain’t done with you.” He began to cough with a ripping noise, as if some wet and necessary vital organ had torn loose and was now working its way up to his mouth—a kidney, maybe. Lacey waited, flinching at the worst of the gurgles.
In the meantime, a group of children with cameras had gathered around Fly-by-Night. Lacey scanned the cemetery and noticed all the casual strollers, some snapping the more exciting monuments with their cell phones, others setting up careful geometrical shots with professional-looking outfits with big black lenses.
They’d never be able to bury Bibbits without being seen. And, worse, photographed. She’d never get a job in the district with something like that on her record. “Hello,” she said into her phone. “Mr. Craddock, are you okay?”
“A room,” he said.
“Bibbits doesn’t like it,” Ella Dane said. “Too many children. Too much noise.”
Lacey blinked at this—they’d been at Burgoyne Elementary, not an hour ago. What happened to Bibbits loving children and wanting to be near them? “What about the beach?” she said.
“It’s outside,” Ev Craddock said. “That’s where we keep it.”
“Bibbits loved the beach,” Ella Dane said.
“Two double beds,” Lacey said into the phone. “Nonsmoking, and we can be there tomorrow afternoon.” She’d have preferred to leave today, immediately, and get as far from Forrester Lane as she could, but she had an appointment with Dr. Vlk tomorrow morning, and Eric might still call. She’d left eight messages for him and she refused to try again. It was his turn. Surely, surely, he wasn’t going to stop talking to her. Their marriage couldn’t end like this. He had to call. Maybe he was calling right now and leaving a message.