Fatal Disclosure. Sandra Robbins

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       Betsy glanced up and into the face of two smiling women. The brims of straw hats shaded their faces, but wisps of gray hair stuck out over their ears. Sunglasses perched on their noses, and they each held one of the information pamphlets from the Island Visitors Center.

       Betsy pushed to her feet and brushed the dirt from the gardening gloves she wore. “Thank you. May I help you?”

       One of them pointed to the pamphlet she held. “We’re vacationing on the island and wanted to get a look at the British Cemetery. We didn’t expect to find someone working here.”

       Betsy walked to where they stood and smiled. “The Coast Guard is in charge of keeping the grounds in order. I know the guys stationed on the island, so I volunteer to help them out every once in a while. My name is Betsy Michaels.”

       The woman who had spoken pointed to the woman beside her. “This is my friend Miranda Walton, and I’m Lizzy Nichols. We’re retired teachers from Florida, and we’re vacationing on your beautiful island.”

       “I hope you’re enjoying your visit.”

       Miranda nodded. “It’s been wonderful, but this is the first time we’ve gotten over here to see the cemetery. We understand there’s quite a story behind it.”

       “There is.” Betsy pointed to the pamphlets they held. “Does it tell about it there?”

       Lizzy held hers up and scanned it. “A little, but there must be more.”

       Miranda inched closer. “Do you know what happened to the men buried here? If you do, I’d love to hear the story.”

       “I’d like to hear it, too.” The familiar voice sent shock waves rippling through Betsy’s body, and she looked past Miranda and Lizzy to Mark who stood in the street behind the women.

       The visitors glanced at him and turned back to her with big smiles on their faces. “It sounds like you’ve been chosen to serve as a tour guide for us. Please tell us what happened.”

       Betsy licked her lips and watched Mark stroll up to stand behind Lizzy. Her heart pounded so she didn’t know if she could speak. She took a deep breath and tried to smile. “All right.”

       Miranda motioned to Mark. “Young man, step up here beside us so you can hear.”

       He moved closer, and Betsy cleared her throat. “During the early days of World War II, German U-boats attacked merchant ships off the eastern coast of the United States. From January to June of 1942, almost four hundred ships were sunk off our coast. That’s when the area first became known as the Graveyard of the Atlantic.”

       Lizzy nodded. “My class studied about that when we covered World War II.”

       “England sent a fleet of ships to patrol the shipping lanes, and the HMS Bedfordshire, was one of them. On the morning of May 14, 1942, two bodies washed up on Ocracoke, and their papers identified them as crewman on the Bedfordshire. Several more bodies as well as wreckage from the torpedoed ship followed. The island residents buried them in a spot they designated as the British Cemetery. They later ceded the land to England for all time.”

       Miranda stared at the graves. “I was just a baby when my father died in the war. My mother never recovered. It’s sad to think of the families whose loved ones didn’t come home.”

       “It is. But each year,” Betsy said, “representatives from England and members of our military come together for a ceremony to honor the men who gave their lives in the pursuit of freedom.”

       Lizzy wiped at a tear in the corner of her eye. “What a touching story, and you tell it so well.”

       Betsy darted a glance at Mark, and her heart thudded at the intense stare he directed at her.

       His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Yes, you do.”

       Lizzy and Miranda stared at him, then looked at each other and smiled. Lizzy patted Miranda’s arm. “I think we need to be on our way. Maybe we’ll see you again.”

       Betsy smiled. “I hope so, too. Enjoy your vacation.”

       Neither she nor Mark spoke until the two women had walked some distance down the street. Then he sighed. “I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing here.”

       The tightness in her chest kept her from speaking at first, but she took a deep breath and tried again. “How did you find me?”

       He ran his hand through his hair and grinned. “I couldn’t remember where you told your brother you’d be, but I knew it was a cemetery. So I asked the one person on the island who seems to know everything, and he told me.”

       She smiled. “Grady Teach?”

       Mark laughed, and she remembered how that sound used to thrill her.

       “That’s the guy,” he said. “It seems this is one of the most visited tourist spots on the island, and now I understand why.” He stared at the graves a moment. “Listening to you tell the story of how these men died made me think of my parents.”

       His words surprised Betsy. “I don’t remember you ever talking about your parents.”

       “I don’t talk about them much. They died when I was twelve years old.” He took a deep breath. “But I didn’t come here to talk about that. I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

       She narrowed her eyes. “Of course I’m all right. Why would you think I wasn’t?”

       He glanced around as if he wanted to make sure no one was near enough to hear and then took a step closer. “A man who’d been shot collapsed and died at your feet this morning. Whoever killed him could have seen you. I think you need to be careful.” He raised his hand and swept it in a wide arc. “You’re out in the open at a tourist attraction in the middle of the day. It could be dangerous.”

       She pulled the gardening gloves from her hand and tossed them in the basket that held her trowel and pruning shears. “You’re being ridiculous.”

       He glanced up and down the street that ran in front of the cemetery. “This is off the beaten path from the main street of the village. I’m only concerned about your safety.”

       Betsy propped her hands on her hips. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before. It seems like that was what you said after Mr. Rousseau’s arrest. Your friendship with me was an attempt to keep me safe. Well, I didn’t buy it then—and I don’t now.”

       “Betsy, please. What happened this morning has nothing to do with Memphis.”

       “Maybe not to you, but I can’t help remembering how I felt when you thought I was a criminal.”

       “Betsy…”

       Before he could continue, her cell phone chimed. Betsy held up her hand to stop him. She unzipped her fanny pack and pulled it out. Mark’s lips twitched when he spotted the phone’s hard cover with its painted swirl of butterflies and flowers. “What’s wrong?” she said.

       He arched an eyebrow. “I’ve never seen a cover like that.”

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