I studied the sign. Could the new development have something to do with Harold Pembroke’s murder?
Movement caught my eye on the duck farm, and a moment later an old man stepped around the house carrying a wooden crate.
He was in his seventies, with weathered skin and the lean, wiry build of someone who was still active. He touched the rim of his straw sun hat, then continued toward a stack of crates at the front of the house, his rubber boots squelching in the mud.
He set down the crate, then lifted a large bag of duck feed onto his shoulders.
I could almost see the resignation in the sag of his shoulders, and I turned away to head down the path that Beck said would lead to the cemetery.
The sun was dappled as it was filtered through the huge old trees overhead, birds singing from their branches. Ducks quacked on the lake, the distant hum of the lone motorboat droning like a lullaby, and children played on the banks of the small beach that had been roped off from the deeper water.
It was beautiful. Perfect.
But my mind churned.
This was what big developers did. They ruined perfect beautiful places with ugly new things designed to impress instead of provide actual enjoyment. How far along was the lakeside development? If Harold Pembroke had been fighting it, that meant it wasn’t too late to stop it.
I didn’t know why I cared so much. I wouldn’t be here long anyway.
But still.
If Harold had been fighting the new community (why did they need their own community when there was already oneright here?), that meant the people behind Hearthstone had a motive to silence him. I followed the path, Beck’s cookies and Clara’s flowers still in my hand, and wondered if Sheriff Crowe was questioning the people behind Hearthstone.
The path curved under my feet, taking me around a gentle bend in the lake, and the cemetery came into view. The markers were in assorted heights and styles, but they were all clean and well maintained. The grass had been recently mowed, there wasn’t a weed in sight, and flowers dotted the gravestones like colorful punctuation marks.
This wasn’t a forgotten graveyard on the outskirts of town. The people of Blackwell Hollow cared about this place.
I started up a grassy hill, following the directions Beck had given me when I left the bakery.
“Up the hill, look for the biggest maple tree, go right, keep walking,” I murmured.
I scanned the names on the markers as I passed, looking for Evelyn’s. I’d been walking for less than five minutes when I found it.
Evelyn Whitaker
Beloved Friend
The date of her birth and death was etched into the granite, and a fresh bouquet of white peonies sat inside a built-in vase at the front of the marker. Someone else had been here recently, someone who knew Aunt Evelyn’s favorite flowers.
“Hi, Aunt Evelyn,” I said, kneeling in front of her marker.
I set the cookies down and untied the ribbon on the flowers. I removed the rubber band around their stems, then started placing the individual blossoms inside the vase with the peonies that were already there.
“I’m so sorry I wasn’t here,” I said as I worked. “So sorry I didn’t know.”
A warm breeze drifted in off the water, and a bluebird landed on a nearby gravestone to watch me work.
“You were so good to me even after we left. You never missed a single birthday. I wish I’d done more than write you thank-you notes. I wish I’d called, that I’d visited.”
The vase was filling up, the fresh peonies and dahlias filling out the lush blooms that had already been there.
“You have such a beautiful home, and I love the bakery. Thank you for fixing everything up so nicely for me.”
Another bluebird landed next to the first one as I placed the last stem in the vase, and I looked around, wondering if there was a flock of them nearby.
I opened the box of cookies and placed one on Aunt Evelyn’s grave next to the flowers. “Beck said these were your favorite.”
I broke off a few pieces of another cookie and tossed them toward the birds. They chirped, then flew down to peck at the crumbs in the grass.