Arthur Pendelton was in the leather visitor’s chair.

He rested his hands on his belly and watched me come in.

I let my purse drop onto the carpet.

“I want to see the 1971 burial log,” I said.

“The one that shows exactly who’s under that stone by the crepe myrtle.”

Higgins straightened his glasses by the corners of the frames.

“We don’t have that book anymore, Ona,” Higgins said.

“It’s a permanent church record, I suppose,” I said.