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obviously anxious for them to leave so they could finish the burial and get out of the wet.
    Margaret looped arms with Earl and drew close beneath the cover of his umbrella as they sloshed through the wet grass toward their car.
    “You did a good job,” she told him, squeezing his arm.
    He chuckled. “Mrs. Watkins told me she was glad she got to hear me preach a funeral before she died. Now she won’t worry that I’ll botch hers too badly.”
    “Who’s that, Earl?” Margaret nodded toward a gray car with fogged windows parked behind their Buick.
    “Looks like Jackie’s car,” he said, squinting to see inside.
    The driver’s window opened a few inches. A pair of lips appeared.
    “Psst, Pastor Palmer. Margaret. Over here.”
    Margaret arched her eyebrows at Earl, who shrugged. They veered toward the car. At their approach, the window opened a few more inches to reveal dark sunglasses beneath a Cincinnati Reds baseball cap.
    “Jackie, is that you?”
    “Shh! Someone will hear you.”
    Margaret looked around the empty cemetery. “There’s no one here.”
    “Oh.” A brief pause, and then Jackie’s lips twisted with suppressed sobs. “Do you have a minute? I…I need to talk to someone.”
    “Would you like to come back to the parsonage?” Earl gave her a soothing smile. “I’m free for the rest of the day.”
    Sniffling, Jackie nodded. Margaret and Earl exchanged a glance.
    “Earl, you run along and we’ll be there directly. I’m going to ride with Jackie.”
    Earl walked her around to the passenger side and opened the door for her. Jackie picked up a pile of papers and threw them unceremoniously into the backseat, where they were immediately lost in the clutter. Margaret had no sooner seated herself and closed the door than the car leaped forward, speeding down the narrow driveway and taking the curves much faster than she liked. She hastily snapped her seat belt, her heart rate picking up speed along with the car. At the cemetery’s entrance, she was thrown sideways as Jackie turned left onto the main road without even slowing down.
    “You missed the funeral,” Margaret said as she clutched the door handle.
    “I couldn’t go.” A sob broke the last word in two. “I can’t show my face around those people ever again.”
    Jackie turned a corner at forty-five miles per hour. Margaret gasped. Could the young woman see through the fogged windshield and those dark glasses?
    “Slow down, dear,” Margaret managed. “You’re making me nervous.”
    “Oh. Sorry.”
    Jackie tapped the brakes until they were down to thirty, and Margaret let out a sigh of relief. “Now what’s this about not being able to show your face? It’s the casserole, isn’t it?”
    “Oh, Margaret!”
    Jackie sobbed and slammed on the brakes. Margaret grasped the seat belt that stopped her from plastering her face on the windshield. Jackie covered her face with her hands, crying, as Margaret glanced through the rear window. The steady downpour made visibility difficult. Not a good time to stop in the middle of the street.
    “Why don’t you pull over to the side of the road so we can talk?”
    Jackie proceeded to do as she asked, then collapsed across the steering wheel, knocking her cap to the floor. Relieved to be out of the way of traffic, Margaret said, “Now listen, Jackie. No one will blame you. Alice’s death was not your fault.”
    “The police don’t agree.” Fear showed through the tears in her eyes. “Do you think I’ll be arrested?”
    “Of course not! I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for Alice’s death, and that detective will find it.”
    For a moment, the confidence Margaret poured into her voice seemed to soothe the girl. At least her crying slowed and she gave a slight nod. But then her face crumpled with another wail.
    “The police have probably visited half the congregation this morning. I just know everyone is talking about my spiral pasta casserole being what killed Mrs. Farmer. How