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widebrimmed hat, khaki pants and a matching shirt.
      I didn't want to startle him, since he couldn't hear me, so I took a wide path around him until I was in his line of vision. I smiled and offered a small wave.
      He turned off the Weed Eater and pulled out the earplugs. He had to be in his sixties, his skin darkened by years in the sun. White stubble sprouted along his chin and on his cheeks. He said, ''There's a directory in the cottage near the front if you're looking for someone in particular.'' He gestured that way and started to put the earplugs back in.
      ''That's not what I need,'' I said quickly before he could start up the noisy equipment again. ''Can I ask you a few questions?''
      ''I'm no tour guide and I ain't got time to teach you about this place, if that's what you want.''
       Grumpy old guy, I thought. But the temperature was already approaching ninety and he probably wanted to get this job done before the heat sizzled him like a sausage on the grill. ''Just a few questions, I promise.'' I removed a business card, walked over and handed it to him. ''I'm a private detective and I'm working on a case.''
      ''Cemetery's a funny place to be huntin' up privateeye stuff. Ain't many folks to talk to here—unless you fancy yourself some kind of ghost whisperer.''
      I laughed and this seemed to crack his stoic facade because he smiled.
    ''No, sir,'' I said. ''I don't believe in ghosts.''
      ''I'm glad for that. All kinds of weird people trample through here who do. What you want to know?''
      ''Does anyone visit the Richter plot? I saw flowers on one of the graves.''
      ''Richter plot, huh? Those flowers are from the girl. Pretty thing. Started coming here a year ago. She visits every week on Friday—Katarina Richter's grave—but she was a no-show yesterday. None of them other Richters come regular except the mister. He's here 'bout once a month and a'course always on Katarina's birthday.''
      ''The mister?'' I asked.
      ''Mr. Elliott. Always slips me a hundred, tells me to take care of his Katarina. And I do spend extra time keeping her grave tended to.''
       Elliott Richter, huh? ''This girl who visits. Do you know her name?''
      The man shook his head no. ''Never talked to me. Seemed afraid, if I read her right.''
      ''Small? Blond hair?'' I asked, considering whether Katarina could indeed be JoLynn's mother.
      ''Yeah. She send you here?''
      ''In a way,'' I answered. ''Thank you so much, Mr. . . . ?''
      ''Sam. Everyone calls me Sam.''
      I pulled a twenty from my purse and handed it to him. He smiled and nodded, then plugged his ears and went back to work.
      I drove a little too fast on the way to Methodist, the poem on the tombstone replaying in my brain. By the time I arrived outside Aunt Caroline's hospital room, I'd managed to quit silently repeating those words and was now wondering about these weekly visits to the grave. Had to have been JoLynn unless there were more petite blond Richters in the family.
      Kate met me at Aunt Caroline's door and kept me out with a raised palm. I looked past Kate into the room and saw a striking young woman with silky black hair deep in conversation with our aunt.
      Kate looked me up and down. ''It's supposed to reach a hundred degrees today. Why are you wearing—''
      ''I'll tell you later. What's up?''
      She took my arm and led me out into the hall. ''That's Nancy Song, the dietitian. The doctor's releasing Aunt Caroline today. She'll be on oral medicine and a diet that doesn't sound all that strict. But she will have to test her blood sugar every day and I think that might be a problem.''
      ''Why?'' I asked. ''She knows she's diabetic and that's what diabetics have to do.''
      ''Not so simple when you're in denial,'' Kate said. ''Sticking herself with a sharp object and keeping a record of her sugar levels means she has to accept reality.''
      I nodded. ''And accepting a reality she hasn't created herself