I swallowed, reread the words. Graveyard poetry isn't all that good—and damn depressing. I turned and walked away, glancing at the other tombstones before stepping back over the fence. They were older markers with nothing more than names and dates. While I hurried to my car, several grackles squawked at me as if to admonish me for trespassing. And I did feel like an intruder.
I'd almost made it to my car when I heard the buzz of a Weed Eater. I walked around a border of hedges and saw a groundskeeper working away at overgrown grass along a fence. He had earplugs in and wore a 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 will be challenge."
"You get the picture."
"Can we hire someone to stick her finger? At least for now?" I asked.
Kate grinned. "Do you really want to put someone through that kind of torture?"
Nancy Song came though the door then and said to Kate, "There you are."
"Sorry. I wanted to fill in my sister. How did that go?"
"She's an interesting woman," Nancy Song said. "Intelligent but perhaps a little strong-willed."
"You mean as stubborn as a rusty pump," I answered.
Song smiled. "Texas has such an interesting language. She will learn and accept eventually. But be prepared for a few bumps in the road."
"Oh, we're used to those," I answered.
Song handed Kate a stack of diet plans. "These will help. I gave your aunt the same ones. After the nurse trains her for blood sugar testing, the doctor will probably release her. I urged her to attend the hospital's diabetic support group as well and she told me she would think about it."
"Great." How I wished they'd keep her one more day. But I should be glad Aunt Caroline had rebounded quickly. Once Nancy Song left us, I turned to Kate. "Guess we'll have to wait on the doctor. Want to slip over to Ben Taub and pay JoLynn Richter that visit? You should see her. It's awful what someone tried to do to her."
"I do want to go, but let's clear it with General Caroline."
Aunt Caroline was more than happy for us to leave. She wanted to shower and put on her makeup before the doctor arrived. On our fifteen-minute walk to Ben Taub, Kate told me Aunt Caroline seemed quite taken with her new endocrinologist.
"What is he? About thirty?" I asked as we stopped at a corner.
"More like forty, but age has never mattered to Aunt Caroline when it comes to flirting."
During our walk—a far easier option than changing parking spots—I filled Kate in on what I had learned about the Richter family and how I had nothing on JoLynn. When we entered the lobby, I was grateful the place was as cold as a knothole in the North Pole because I was sweating bullets.
"Why don't you know anything about JoLynn?" she asked. "You're the queen of finding out anything on anybody."
"Not this time. And that's very strange. If I can find baptismal records on someone born in the seventies— which I've done before—why can't I find anything on her?"
As we entered the elevator, Kate said, "Sorry, but I kind of like that. Apparently Big Internet Brother hasn't been watching everyone."
We rode in silence and then visited the restroom so I could run a comb through my sweat-dampened hair. Turned out I didn't have a comb, but Kate is always prepared.
"I like this cinnamon color. You should stick with it." She was watching me try to make her comb work a miracle—a miracle that wasn't about to happen.
When she saw my frustration, she tousled my crown. "Go with the natural look." Then she handed me a lipstick—Mocha Pink. "This will help, too."
The lipstick did make me look more normal, especially since my flushed cheeks were less pronounced thanks to the AC. I no longer felt like I'd just emerged from a rain forest tour. We then walked down the corridor to the neuro ICU. Two men sat in the waiting area. One was a Montgomery County sheriff's deputy and the other a young man in his twenties.