When I pulled into the gravel lot of Softball Junction I knew John Howard’s idea was a hit. Who knew so many people had time on their hands, especially on a Sunday afternoon? “Like the shirts, Emma Lee?” John Howard asked. A lanky, blond-haired young man with dopey gray eyes and a wisp of a goatee stood next to him with a Grave Digger shirt on. “I do.” I nodded, putting my hand over my eyes to shield the sun. “Grave Diggers,” I said in my best spooky voice. “Nice name.” “Thanks.” John Howard’s dingy hand smacked the boy next to him. “This here is Arley Burgin. He is my buddy who works for Hardgrove Funeral Homes.” Homes as in many. “You know ’em?” Arley asked. “Yes,” I said without a hint of sarcasm, which surprised even myself. Gina Marie Hardgrove. Saying her name put a bad taste in my mouth.
