Wyatt Wright had already called for a car and was waiting for her outside the beauty salon.
The car didn't drive into the funeral home; it stopped across the street from the main entrance, a ten-minute walk away.
Oremont is a tourist city with bluer skies than Ardale, distant mountains towering into the clouds, and waterfalls cascading down.
There weren't many pedestrians on the sidewalk; Rae Bennett walked on the inside: "When did you get here?"
Wyatt Wright stepped on the greenery: "A little after seven."
Rae Bennett carefully observed his expression and tentatively asked, "Are you very familiar with that reporter?"
"We've worked together a few times; he writes, and I do the photography."
Wyatt Wright didn't say much else.
He was there to shoot a promotional film for the Tourism Bureau, so it was normal for him to know about the reporter's death.
Rae Bennett did not probe further; she could tell that Wyatt Wright's mood was at rock bottom.
