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at a crumby table. This afternoon she hovered across from me, staring up at the ceiling, then down at the toe of one of her tennis shoes. I sipped my coffee, though it was very hot, and waited, smiling at her every now and then, wondering what was coming.
    It didn’t take long to find out. Gloria leaned over and pretended my napkin holder needed straightening. Her small face worked with whatever she had to say.
    â€œYou know, Emily,” she whispered. “I belong to the Church of the Contented Flock. Well, I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but awhile ago Pastor Runcival preached a whole sermon on people worshipping the devil and bringing evil into our midst.”
    â€œWhat’s that got to do with Ruby Poet?” I sat back, startled. You never quite knew what folks up here might fixate on. I wasn’t sure about Gloria’s opening but at least this was something beyond everybody moaning over “Poor old Miz Poet.”
    â€œProbably nothing, but there has been talk. Now, don’t get me wrong. You know I don’t gossip like Eugenia does. Still, it’s hard to work here and not pick up on a thing or two. I heard that Miz Poet and a group of her friends got themselves involved in nature worship, or some such thing. They meet in the woods, out by you, at Miz Henry’s. Don’t ask me what it’s all about. I only heard this from somebody saying something in here. Amanda Poet, Miz Poet’s daughter, caught what was said—was what I heard—and she got up and flounced right out. Caused a big stink. I asked Eugenia what it was about and she said just a bunch of old ladies dancing out in the woods because it made them feel young, or it made them happy, or something. Called themselves Women of the Moon. Eugenia didn’t seem to think there was anything wrong with it …” She hesitated, looking around to see who was watching or listening. She lowered her voice, “But then, Eugenia’s no chicken herself. She thinks anything old ladies do is all right.”
    I looked around, too, and would have said everybody was watching—and not watching. They were certainly straining their ears toward us, over what I imagined were cold cups of coffee.
    â€œWell, that was the first I understood what Pastor Runcival was mad about. You know, like there were witches loose in town or something.”
    â€œWitches!” I shook my head at Gloria. “That’s crazy.”
    â€œNow, Emily. The reverend says we don’t know everything that goes on back in the woods. Those people aren’t like town people. I mean, you know, some of them are really odd.”
    â€œI live out in the woods.”
    Gloria had the good grace to blush. “I know you do. Well, of course, I know that. But you’re new up here …”
    â€œThree years.”
    â€œPhew, that’s nothing. My mother came from Grand Rapids thirty-two years ago and they still call her ‘the Grand Rapids girl.’”
    â€œSo, you think maybe your pastor had it in for Mrs. Poet?”
    Gloria’s jaw dropped. Her dark eyes grew huge. “I wasn’t saying anything of the kind, Emily. I was just saying, because of the gossip about Miz Poet and her friends … well … who knows what got into somebody’s brain. I just thought I’d share that with you because I didn’t want to say anything to Lucky Barnard. I don’t want to get anybody in trouble …”
    She was going to go on with her disclaimers but Deputy Dolly Wakowski walked in and the whole restaurant went silent. The only sound was the angry buzz of one fly beating hard against a smoke-fogged window.
    Dolly stood in the doorway, looking around, hunching her shoulders up, hands clutching on to her drooping gun belt. She searched the place, table by table, until her eyes fell on Gloria and me. With a dip of her head, as if she’d found what she was looking for, Dolly walked over,