“There’s really no reason. Everything he found on the Internet and read in Owen’s newspapers was pretty much what we already knew from Deborah Fuller. Well, there was one thing he found in one of the newspapers—the debris field was in a twenty-five-mile radius, because the plane was at its cruising altitude when it exploded. That most likely means there was no prior warning to the pilots that something was wrong with the plane. No distress calls from the pilots, either. And, as Deborah pointed out, no cockpit recorders to shed any light on what was going on in the final minutes of the flight. Other than that, we still don’t know anything new. It’s a closed case.”
Loralee thought about the plane model Gibbes had brought down to Owen’s bedroom, all of the careful details that must have taken a very long time to get right. “If it were so cut-and-dried, then why did Edith feel the need to make a crime-scene analysis of it?”
Merritt studied her hands, her expression making it clear that she’d thought the exact same thing. “Well, regardless of what she believed, even the police thought it was a closed case. When Gibbes went to talk with the chief about the studies, he asked to see the case file. He flipped through it and said the only thing new in there was the passenger list. And it was definitely marked ‘closed.’”
“Edith must have been a very strong woman.”
Merritt looked at her. “Why do you say that?”
Loralee shrugged, the movement more painful than it should have been. “Just from what you’ve told me, it sounds like her husband didn’t treat her like she deserved, yet she still managed to have this important part of her life without him. It couldn’t have been easy. Mama always said that the easy road is usually the fastest way to hell.”
“Was your mother always that judgmental?”
“No. But she was usually right.” Loralee smiled but was afraid it might look more like a grimace, so she focused her attention on the gravestone next to her. “Poor Rebecca Saltus,” she said out loud. “She was only fifty-one when she died in 1832. That’s the only part of her tombstone you can still read.”
“That’s pretty young,” Merritt said softly. She picked at stray strands of grass that had managed to emerge from the ground despite the heavy tree shade. “My mother was only forty-four when she died. I remember at the time thinking that was old, but it’s really not, is it?”
“No,” Loralee answered. “It’s not old at all.”
“Mama—I’m done,” Owen called from across the cemetery. “Can we go now? It’s really hot.”
“Thank goodness,” Merritt said as she got to her feet, then slapped at another mosquito on her neck. “I think they mislabeled a can of mosquito food as repellent, because they can’t seem to stay away from me.”
Loralee tried to roll to her knees so she could stand, but the pain was red-hot now, shooting like fireworks up through her chest.
Merritt was on the ground in front of her, her face creased with worry. “Do I need to call an ambulance? You look really sick.”
Loralee wanted to say something about how Merritt needed to work on her Southernisms, but the pain seemed to have stolen her voice.
Merritt whipped out her phone, but Loralee managed to put her hand on her wrist to stop her. “No. Please.” She took a deep breath. “Just help me up, and don’t let Owen see.”
Two strong hands gripped her elbows and gently lifted her up, then continued to hold on as she and Merritt waited for Owen to reach them.
“I did William Bull’s grave marker. He must have been an important person, because there was a lot of writing.”
“Good job, sweetie.” She tried to straighten up all the way, but couldn’t. Merritt continued to hold on tightly, even letting Loralee lean into her as they began walking toward the exit. “We’ll go to the library tomorrow and look him up and then you can write a report,” she managed to say through gritted teeth.
“Oh, boy,” Owen said. “Most kids go to summer camp, you know.”
“Maybe next year,” Loralee said, afraid to make a promise she couldn’t keep. “You get to ride shotgun on the way back, okay? I’m going to let Merritt drive us back, and I think I’m just going to nap on the backseat.”
Owen was too busy studying his brass rubbing to notice how much she needed Merritt’s help to get inside the car, or how the hot leather of the backseat should have burned her if she could only feel it.
Before Merritt closed the door, Loralee touched her arm. “I think you’re a lot like Edith.”
Merritt gave her a hard look. “Why do you say that?”
“Because there’s a lot of strength and determination in you, too.”
“You don’t know me.”
Loralee wanted to argue with her, to tell her that through Robert she felt as if she’d always known Merritt and the girl she’d been, the daughter she’d been. The survivor she’d been after the accident that had killed her mother. Loralee wasn’t sure what had happened in the intervening years—years that she was pretty sure hadn’t been good ones—yet Merritt had come out on the other side still kicking.
Instead, she said, “Call Gibbes. Ask him to meet us at the house.”
“He’s a pediatrician, Loralee.” She glanced at the front seat, where Owen was busy studying his wax rubbing. “Why don’t we go to the ER instead?”