What Is He Doing in the Graveyard?

Tate scrambled to get the article done in time.  Parson had stopped by just in time to let her know that she had seen the judge leave Mrs. Ellison's house at four thirty, the exact time when he should have been in his chambers readying for his next court case at five.  Tate typed in the last word with a flourish and popped off the article to her editor, Anita Bilgeworth.

"That was close," panted Parson.  "We almost didn't make it that time."  

"You got here just in time.  I sent the article at exactly 12:00 noon.  Anita would have had my head.  So what do you think Judge Eller was doing there?"  Tate sat back in her office chair and tapped her lips with a yellow #2 pencil.  

"I don't know, but I'm pretty sure he's not cheating on his wife, that's for sure.  Not the way he looks compared with Mrs. Ellison.  He's such a dud when it comes to good looks.  I would think that if she were going to cheat on her Clark Gable husband, she'd at least find someone as good looking as him.  Plus, they still walk around like newly weds even though it's been…like, 43 years.  And," Parson raised her finger in significance, "she's the women's Sunday school teacher.  I think it very unlikely.  That was a brilliant idea for the paper though."  Parson sank onto the two-drawer file cabinet near Tate's desk and grinned.  

"Yes, I must say my writer's brain never leaves me disappointed," Tate grinned back.  "Not that being a Sunday school teacher means she would never do something as horrendous as the rumor I just wrote."  

Working at Gas ‘N Go since she had graduated from high school had left Tate hungering for more of the world.  Her "writer's brain" constantly called for more excitement in her life.  She had wanted to pursue a degree in writing but then her father's business had gone bust during her senior year.  Of course there was no money for college so Tate moved out, to lighten expenses on her parents, gotten a fulltime job, a used car her high school boy bestie Judd had lowered to $300 out of pity, and began shouldering all her own expenses while her parents recovered from bankruptcy.  At first times had been too hard to focus on much else besides finances and learning to survive in the real world.  This wasn't high school anymore.  But now Tate was 25 and seven years of Gas ‘N Go was enough boredom to satisfy her for a lifetime and two more.  Desperate to pursue her writing dream somehow, anyhow, Tate jumped at the opportunity when Anita Bilgeworth ran into her at the Grocery Store and More.  Tate had just bent over to look more closely at some yellow summer squash, trying to decide if she wanted one for $.33 or two for $.50 when a large rump bumped into hers causing her knock against the squash display and send all the little yellow squashes bumping to the floor.  

"So sorry, Tate, I didn't see you there," Anita said.  

Tate saw the ten-pound bag of potatoes Anita had been trying to lift into her grocery cart and gave a cool nod to show she accepted her apology.  She wondered why the woman needed ten pounds of potatoes when she lived alone, but to each her own.  

Anita saw Tate eyeing the potatoes and explained, "My turn to host Sunday dinner."  

"Ah," said Tate and turned to pick up the runaway squashes, considering the conversation to be over.  

But Anita continued.  Tate never knew why Anita had kept talking that day but in looking back, she considered it to be her lucky day that Anita had been chatty.  

"So you work at the gas station on Charleston?"  Anita dropped the bag of potatoes into her cart, making it bounce.  

"Yes, I do," Tate said, still chasing yellow squash.  

"I think I've seen you there every week for…the past six years?"  Anita glanced at Tate over her shoulder as she lifted a second ten-pound bag of potatoes into her cart.  Tate just stared.  "Big family," Anita laughed, "Ah-ah-hahahahaaaa."  

Tate wasn't sure if she meant there were many people in her family that met for the Sunday meal or if all of them were at large and rotund as Anita.  

"Yes, um, seven years actually," said Tate, getting back to Anita's earlier question.  

Tate never really remembered how the subject changed to writing, but suddenly there it was.  Anita Bilgeworth was notorious for her "gossipaper".  It could barely be called news.  Well, she did print news, perhaps to cover up the true purpose of her paper, to spread gossip.  But the gossip column was the reason everyone read the paper.  Everyone knew she printed everything from scandals to rumors and was quite merciless in detail, except for people's actual names.  This was her one protection.  Most of the town hated her, but because they could never prove she was talking about them, the gossip column went on.  After a while, people grew ironically addicted to it, reading it with their morning coffee so they had a right of passage to complain and be grumpy.  "Well, let's see what the old witch said about me today," they might say.  And then if nothing was printed that could possibly be alluding to them, they complained that they were not popular to make it into the paper.  And now that she had the town folk hooked, Anita became more and more bold, going so far as to make up rumors, especially about people she disliked.  

Maybe it was Anita's uncharacteristically charming way of conversing that day in the Grocery Store and More, or maybe it was the aching in her gut that sparked tears in her eyes when Tate thought of returning to the gas station the next morning that drove her to actually see Anita's offer in a good light.  

"Come write for me at The Tattler.  My writer that was doing the gossip column is having her first baby and she's going to devote all her time to motherhood now.  Ah-hahahaaaa."  Anita laughed like she had no idea why anyone would want to devote their time to motherhood.  "You seem like you're quick on your feet.  I will edit your articles before they go to print so you don't have to worry about your lack of formal training."  Anita's voice sounded as round as she was.  

"Oh I'm a good writer," Tate butted in.  She just wasn't sure she would be comfortable writing scandal.  She was generally liked by the town and didn't want to make anyone despise her.  

Anita saw her hesitation and patted her arm.  "Well, darling, I'll let you go now.  Listen to me badgering you into something you don't want to do.  Ah-ha-hahaaa.  I'm sure you need to get home so you can get ready for an early morning at the gas station."  

Tate watched Anita turn to go and suddenly saw her only opportunity to get into the writing world in seven years walking away from her.  

"Anita!" she yelled.  

* * *    

"You're probably the best she's ever had," Parson was saying.  

"I know," Tate sang, smiling, and swirled around in her chair.  "I can't believe I get paid to write!"  

"Yeah, you must have been desperate to quit your job at the gas station for only $50 a week here with rent to pay and all."  

"Stop worrying me, Parson," Tate swatted at her friend with an old edition of the paper.  "I'm fine.  I worked things out with my landlord when I first took the job."  

"Yeah by lying to him."  

"I didn't lie to him," Tate wrinkled her eyebrows.  "Psh."  

"You told him you were writing a book?  And when it was done you would probably get a $10,000 advance as soon as the publisher accepted it?  Which would pretty much be as soon as the book was done?"  

"Parson, quit making your voice squeak at the end of each sentence.  You sound ridiculous," Tate frowned, looking away.  

"AND you don't even HAVE a book!"    

Parson's last squeak hit a nerve.  

"I do too!  I have a file with the name of the book on it and I have some notes written down."  

"On a 3x5 card--ONE 3x5 card," Parson choked on her last screech.  

"Parson, calm down.  Have some water.  You're more worried about my life than I am.  Now, let's go.  It's never too early to start on next week's gossip column."  Tate grabbed her leather messenger bag and a fresh legal pad and left the office like a high wind, letting the door bang against the wall when she opened it.  

The girls stepped outside and almost bumped into Avery Stoole.  

"Excuse me.  I'm sorry."  He said his words so fast it was like dominoes falling against each other and making that clattering sound as they all topple over.  His head was bent and his hat hid most of his face except for a glimpse of one worried blue eye before he shuffled along, his hands clasped together in front of him up against his chest.  Before the girls could even say anything, he was already past the neighbor's house and heading toward that patch of woods that stood between this part of the neighborhood and the church graveyard.  

Tate and Parson looked at each other.  

"What was that all about?" said Parson.  

"I don't know," Tate raised her eyebrows, "but it smells like next week's story to me.  Come on, let's follow him."  She grabbed Parson's arm and hunched down to sneak alongside the picket fences lining the front yards of the houses leading up to the woods.  

The girls had to pick up their pace.  Avery had already disappeared somewhere in the woods.  If he was up to some funny business in there, they would never find him unless they hurried a little faster.  

Tate and Parson followed the road through the woods and came upon the graveyard just as Avery was kneeling by a headstone.  The graveyard covered most of the front side of a hill that swept up toward town with the woods on its left and a tree line surrounding it, kind of like a natural forty-foot high fence.  The girls crouched in the brush near the edge of the woods.  Tate scratched the back of her neck to get rid of the goose bumps that were forming.  She looked up toward the church like she expected God to be watching her from its steeple.  Just then a shadow moved away from the window in the side room where the preacher's office was.  But they knew the preacher was having his lunch at the Happy Belly Diner on Main.   That's what he did every weekday between twelve and twelve thirty-three.  Tate knew Parson had seen the shadow too when she heard a sharp breath and felt her arm being squeezed until the skin was pinched.  

Avery's back was to them.  He seemed to be reaching inside his coat.  He turned slightly as he reached down to slip something white underneath the heavy flower urn sitting in front of the tombstone.  Then he got up, looked around quickly and scuttled away the same way he had passed the girls, head down, hands clasped in front of him.  He hurried through the rest of the graveyard, angling up toward the church and disappearing through the tree line as if he were going to circle around the long way back to town so no one would know he had come from the church.  

When the coast was clear, Tate and Parson crept toward the tombstone where Avery had been kneeling.  

"Parson, keep an eye out," Tate hissed.  

Tate knelt in the grass, grunting as she shifted the urn just enough to grab underneath it.  She pulled out a piece of white paper.  In the middle of it was scribbled, "Tonight.  11:30.  You know where."