I slipped the damp paper into the deep pocket of my housecoat and stood there for a long time, the shears heavy in my right hand.
By four o’clock, the wind had picked up from the west, bringing another bank of dark clouds over the fields.
I drove my sedan into the gravel parking lot of the Methodist church, the tires crunching loudly as I came to a stop near the back entrance.
As I reached for my purse, a large black sedan pulled into the space next to mine, parking too close for me to open my door fully.
Margaret stepped out of her car, her wool coat buttoned up to her chin despite the mild temperature.
She adjusted her pearl necklace with her right hand, her fingers moving in that rapid, nervous circle I had seen her use a thousand times.
“Ellen,” she said, her voice rising above the wind as she walked around the hood of my car. “I saw your sedan parked outside the county building this morning. What were you doing downtown?”
