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need.”
    I waited for him to explain. A feedyard wasn’t exactly a business affected by bad publicity. “Don’t you want to know what happened to Victor?”
    â€œOf course,” he said. “But three times in two days now, I’ve had farmers who planned to custom-feed here, cancel, saying they were going with another place until things settled down.”
    I glanced at the papers, thanked him, and drove to this historical society to get them faxed before the KBI office closed.
    ***
    The funeral was Thursday morning. The church was sweltering. I wore a lightweight black linen suit with low-heeled black sandals. I meant to blend in, but even though I was a stranger among strangers, I felt miserably conspicuous in this Catholic Church. Although few people in Carlton County claimed to be friends with the Diaz family, Victor was the most well-known. I signed the guest book. People had come from all over the state. There was a smattering of Spanish surnames. Several Diaz family members from Texas and a couple from Johnson County.
    Once inside, as Sam had predicted, I couldn’t tell the extended family from professional mourners. I didn’t know enough to differentiate who had always lived in Carlton County from those who had moved here recently.
    I took a seat at the back and glanced at the attendees. There were people from the feedyard, and Dwayne Weston and his wife, of course, and Hugh and Estelle Simpson, who shared front row seats with Maria Diaz. There was no roped-off family section, as though Maria wanted to emphasize her aloneness. Stony-faced adolescent girls sat next to weepy middle-aged women. Friends of Maria? I had no way of knowing. Nuns in modern dress who had donned the headdress of their order were working their way along the rosary.
    There was no air conditioning. Several women pulled bejeweled accordion fans from their purses. They had come prepared. Safe to assume they were members of this church. A number of men suffering in suits looked to be Victor’s age. Some were accompanied by beautifully dressed women. Others sat next to women not so fashionably attired. High school classmates who had moved on, I guessed, or perhaps friends from college.
    There could have been cattle buyers present or people Victor met at seminars, if he went to any. The state conducted compliance training for truckers. Were there similar workshops for feed lot owners? I made a mental note to ask Dwayne if Victor’s job required travel. A large number of men sitting in a cluster wore starched jeans and dress western shirts. A sizable showing in all.
    But bottom line, Sam was right. Maria might appreciate my attending her husband’s funeral—this show of support. But it was a waste of time for Dimon’s purposes. How would I know if someone “suspicious” was here today?
    Conspicuously absent were Victor’s sister, and his great-grandmother, Francesca Diaz.
    I dutifully observed, quietly moved my feet to one side and shook my head, when others in my row got up to take communion.
    I went to the burial and scrutinized the clusters of people who immediately formed groups. That was a much more accurate indication of some kind of affiliation than who they sat beside at a church.
    Maria shook with sobs after the last prayer. Hugh and Estelle helped her to her feet. They stood to one side while people filed by to offer condolences.
    I felt like a creep. A peeping Tom.
    Was there anything strange here? Absolutely. I thought about Zola’s comments about the amount of division in this family. There was not going to be a church-supported community dinner with a chance for people to eat and visit. Usually, a funeral is like a mini family reunion. It’s a sure-fire way of getting folks together. New spouses and kids are introduced to the rest of the clan.
    Some of the mourners went to their cars and drove off. A few women fell on Maria’s neck and added their tears to