“In that case, let’s get on with it.” There seemed no reason to belabor the point any further. Miss McElroy had chosen her course, and we’d both stick to it. “I found one of Sukey Lytton’s short stories in an anthology I have,” I said. “Very much influenced by Eudora Welty, I thought. She had a lot of promise.”“Yes,” Miss McElroy said. “Sukey had so much left to write, so much to say. Her death was a great loss to the future of American letters.”“Most likely,” I said. “Right now I need to know more about Sukey Lytton and the circumstances surrounding her death. I’ll reserve judgment on the others until I’ve had a chance to meet them all. Now, the account I found in the local paper, and even the ones in the Jackson and Memphis papers, weren’t much help.”Miss McElroy sat back in her chair, hands clasped together. “Sukey was a bundle of contradictions. Mercurial, insecure, overbearing, endearing. Exasperating. Yes, that’s a good word for her. Exasperating.
