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woman in the same room without ascribing all sorts of…activities.”
    â€œWait. Let me get clear on this. The rumor was that Lorraine had a thing going—” Connie’s eye fell bleakly on mine. “—an assignation, but there was none?”
    â€œI recall every detail. It was claptrap. More names, Ben. Quickly, now, you’ve got me cooking.”
    We went down the rest of Main Street with no more hits, so I started tossing names at random. “Cindy.”
    â€œCynthia. Cynthia Little.”
    Wes Little’s wife. Another blonde. Not as pretty as Dan’s wife; but I had seen the occasional predatory gleam in her hazel eyes that suggested a voraciousness that could make up for a lot in the looks department. We talked about Cynthia for a moment. Connie remembered no details, but neither did she remember disbelieving the gossip linking Cynthia Little to Brian Grose. “More names.”
    â€œHelen…”
    â€œâ€¦No.”
    â€œGeorgia.”
    â€œYes!”
    â€œGeorgia Bowland?” A honey blonde.
    â€œI think yes.”
    â€œOh, God,” I said, thinking, Poor Rick. And poor fragile Georgia.
    â€œDo not leap to conclusions,” said Connie.
    â€œI’m trying not to.”
    â€œI mean, do not forget that I am merely repeating gossip . Not eyewitness accounts.”
    Maybe so, I thought, but her discerning ear had put no credence in the gossip about Lorraine Renner.
    â€œMore names,” Connie demanded.
    We ran through dozens, but produced no more hits, and I could see that she was growing tired. “Thank you, Connie. Thank you for your help.”
    â€œI must say, this has been rather fun. I mean gossip mongering is terrible, ordinarily. But there is nothing like a good cause to expiate guilt. Do you see the pattern? If three constitute a pattern?”
    â€œSure. Priscilla, Georgia and Cindy. All three of the possibly-seduced are married to Cemetery Association Trustees.”
    â€œAny one of whom could be an angry husband.”
    â€œKeeping in mind that all we know is gossip.”
    Connie smiled. “Shall we dub the possibly-seduced the ‘gossiply-seduced’?
    â€œBut, seriously, Benjamin, why would such a husband want to hire a detective to solve the murder he committed?”
    â€œHe’d have no choice in the matter if the other two wanted it. At least he could console himself that a part-time detective would just get in the way of the police. Might even think he could pump me to keep abreast of their investigation in time to run for it.”
    ***
    The Board of Trustees of Newbury’s Village Cemetery Association met in Grace Botsford’s dining room. She lived in a large old saltbox, a beautifully kept gem of weathered shingles, twelve-over-twelve windows, and pale-green shutters. It stood half-smothered by a garden of roses on the edge of Newbury’s central Borough, where the original settlement had clustered around Newbury Road, which we now call Main Street.
    Rick Bowland introduced me formally to ten people I had known my whole life. Then he told them, “Ben is going to make an effort to find the murderer quickly to demonstrate to the court that the Village Cemetery Association took charge and did the right thing.”
    â€œThat is absurd,” Grace protested. “Let the police handle it. Why waste our money?”
    â€œHe won’t charge a lot, will you Ben?”
    I gave that the non-committal mumble it deserved.
    Grace looked at the others, all men, most younger than she, and said, quietly and firmly, like the businesswoman she was, “I understand your strategy. But it will backfire. It will make us look like an entrenched faction so out of touch and mistrustful of the police that we conduct our own investigation led by a real estate broker. No offense, Ben, but that has been your primary occupation since you were released from the penitentiary.”
    That gratuitous shiv