“All right. What time and where?”

“Two o'clock,” the college president said. “At Arlington National Cemetery.”

“Please tell me you don't mean the one in Washington, D.C.!”

“That's the one. If you leave by ten, you'll be there in plenty of time.” He stopped in the doorway on his way out. “I'd give you a ride, but my car's already full with the trustees.”

“Be sure to keep track of your mileage,” Cassie said. “If there's any money left at the end of the month, we can reimburse you for the gas.”

Being the editor/publisher wasn't all I'd hoped it would be.

“I nearly forgot, you had a phone call this morning.” Cassie rummaged through the mess on her desk. “Here it is. Dr. Washabaugh. Again.”

“I'll call her first thing tomorrow,” I said.

Cassie said, “Call her now, Tori. Why are you procrastinating on this?” She began pushing buttons on her telephone.

“Procrastination is one of the character defects which make me so lovable,” I said.

She ignored me and said into the receiver. “Dr. Washabaugh, please. This is Tori Miracle returning her call.” To me she said, “She'll be on in a minute. You can take it on your phone. Yes, yes, she's right here.” She glared at me until I picked up the phone on my desk.

“This is Tori,” I reluctantly said to the invisible person on the line.

“I've been trying to get hold of you for a long time.” Dr. Washabaugh sounded aggravated. “Didn't you get any of my messages?”

“Sorry. I've been really busy.”

“Can you come to my office this afternoon? I want to go over your test results with you.”

“Can't make it today,” I said.

“Tomorrow morning, then.”

I felt a growing sense of alarm. “What is it? Can't you tell me now?”

“It would be better if we did this in the office. I'll see you at eight.”

I held on to the receiver for a long time after I heard the disconnecting click.

“Something wrong?” Cassie asked.

I hung up and shook my head. “No. Just routine stuff. Are you sure you can handle everything this afternoon?”

“Of course I can.”

“I know you can. Which makes me wonder why P. J. didn't ask you to take over the Chronicle.”

“She did, Tori.”

“Why didn't you…?”

“You'll find out.”

The drive to Washington on the interstate was long and boring, making me wish once again the Chronicle could afford a tape player for its car. Or even a radio. Air-conditioning would be nice, too, I thought, as my face was bombarded by dirt thrown through the open window by the parade of tractor trailers speeding past me. At long last I drove through the impressive entrance to Arlington National Cemetery, parked at the modern visitor center, and picked up a funeral pass.

“There's a bus to the grave site,” the woman at the desk told me. “It's parked out front.”

I paused for a moment outside to admire the beautiful vista before me of rolling hills marked with small white grave markers and impressive monuments. On the hill stood Arlington House, once the home of Robert E. Lee and Mary Custis, the great-granddaughter of Martha Washington, and, since the Civil War, a possession of the United States government. I'd been to a beautiful wedding there once, a long time ago.

I found a bus marked SSGT EDWARD MACMILLAN and climbed the steps. “Is this the right bus?” I asked the driver. “I'm looking for Congressman Macmillan's funeral.”

“This is it,” he told me. “Here, we go by the departed's military rank.”

As I walked to the back of the bus, I recognized a lot of people from Lickin Creek. I've come to the conclusion there are only fifty people living in the town, and they go to everything as a group. They all were in gray, black, or navy blue. I was dressed all wrong, as usual- my gold corduroy jacket stood out like a lighthouse beacon in a storm.

A plump lady with a stiff white bonnet on her bun of gray hair patted the seat next to her. “Sit with me, Tori. If I'd known you was coming we could have rode together.”

She was Garnet's aunt Gladys. One of them anyway. At family gatherings it always seemed as if all the women were Aunt Gladys and all the men were Uncle Zeke.

I'd barely had time to sit down on the hard brown vinyl bench seat next to her before she said, “My, what pretty earrings, Tori. You look like a gypsy.”

The bus lurched to a start, and a few minutes later we were disembarking at the grave site.

Rows of metal folding chairs faced an open grave, hauntingly reminiscent of the one recently dug on the lawn of the Lickin Creek College for Women. Aunt Gladys insisted on looking at the white marble grave marker, so I went with her. The carving on the stone said, SSGT Edward Macmillan. D.O.B., March 27, 1924. D.O.D.-. His date with death had not yet been filled in. On the back of the stone were more words: Ramona Macmillan, D.O.B., December 12, 1926. D.O.D., April 9, 1966.

“He was married before?” I asked.

Gladys nodded and dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. “Lovely woman. Died of cancer. Smoker, of course.” I was sure no cigarette had ever soiled Garnet's Aunt Gladys's lips. She added, “She was an Unterberger, you know,” as if that should mean something to me.

We took seats in the last row and rested our feet on the green artificial grass carpet beneath the chairs. Soon Dr. Godlove arrived, accompanied by several people who must have been the college trustees. He nodded and passed by me to take a seat in the roped-off section down front. Exactly at two o'clock, the sound of a band playing a Sousa march prompted us all to turn around.

Over the crest of a hill came an impressive parade, an army band, an honor guard of soldiers in dress uniform, a riderless horse, and a caisson, on which lay a coffin covered with an American flag. Walking behind the coffin were several mourners, including one who I assumed was the widow since she wore a long black veil, à la Jackie Kennedy, that hid her hair and face.

The mourners took their seats in the front row, and an army officer stepped forward. From the little silver cross he wore on his uniform, I guessed he was the chaplain. He gave a subtle signal with one hand, and a sharp-looking soldier stepped up to the caisson, lifted the flag on top of the coffin, opened a little door in the rear of it, and removed a small flat metal box. Everyone stood as he carried it to the grave site, where he solemnly laid it on the artificial turf.

“What's that?” I asked Aunt Gladys.

“That's Mack. He was cremated.”

I'd never seen a box of cremated human remains before, and I was surprised that it was so small. How could a person be reduced to so little?

The service went quickly. The chaplain said a few words about the congressman's military service in World War II and his long tenure as a congressman, then offered a prayer. The band played taps, and the honor guard raised their rifles and gave the departed man a twenty-one-gun salute. Ironic, I thought, considering the last thing he'd seen was fifteen rifles aiming directly at him.

The flag from the coffin was folded into a neat triangle by several soldiers, one of whom passed it to the chaplain, who then handed it to the widow. That was the signal for everyone to stand and rush forward to offer condolences to Mrs. Macmillan. I stood in line and waited my turn, wondering what I was going to say to her.

From behind I admired her trim, athletic figure. She had to be a lot younger than her husband, I figured. Nobody could look that good in their seventies, even from the back.

It was almost my turn. She extracted herself from a bear hug given her by one of the Lickin Creek contingent and turned to me. I reached out to shake her hand, then stopped with it hanging awkwardly in midair.

She had raised her veil in order to hug and kiss the well-wishers. Other than her lips and eyes, Mrs. Mac-millan's face was totally covered with a tan elastic mask. A black hole marked the place where her nose should be.