Detective White called me at ten a.m. the next morning. The FBI had left their calling card at nine a.m., sharp, and spent most of the next hour exchanging information with the people assigned to Amelia’s murder investigation. Officer White said it was very interesting, but his opinion was there was no connection between Leonard Marsh’s occupation and his widow’s death. With no evidence supporting such a theory his superiors agreed, making it unanimous among the law enforcement crowd. After the long conference with Anne Carey and George the night before, and thinking it all through again before going to sleep, my inclination still leaned in that direction also.
“At least,” I shared with him cautiously, “ the connection would be a long shot.”
Before he could quiz me on that I went right on to tell him about Claire Marsh, and how I discovered her existence. He thought it was interesting but didn’t see any line in that direction to help him solve his murder either. He was rather droll about suggesting my friends and myself should be careful about which rocks we looked under, and hung up.
“I’m getting a little tired of people telling us Mrs. Marsh is none of our business,” I muttered out loud.
Feeling physically normal again, I went to the diner and ate enough to raise a comment from Marla. It was true I seldom ordered an omelet, and never before had I eaten the whole thing. I read an Agatha Christie mystery while eating and enjoyed it as much as I did my breakfast. Even with the cold water being dumped on us, and even if my police contact was not taking our discoveries with more than a grain of salt, that morning I wasn’t discouraged. Surprising, but one cannot always control emotional output.
It was almost noon by the time I finished loitering at the diner. There had been frost the night before, but now the sun was warm and I found my way to a solitary country road where I could hike and think. It was solitary enough for me to do some of my thinking out loud, always beneficial for me.
Later that day I called Everett and Judy back. It took awhile to catch them up on events. I spoke with Joel who reminded me we had forgotten to buy him a super hero shirt, an omission I begged his forgiveness for and promised to rectify. Judy told me Janelle had called them to chat the night before, and hinted she might stop in for a visit before she returned to Boston. We all knew better than to hold our breath. It was Ev’s opinion there was something important in Amelia Marsh’s past relationship with her sister-in-law, although he admitted it was impossible to know what on the information we had. He just had a feeling Claire Marsh could put some light on the pieces that were missing.
A co-worker called to ask how I was feeling. We chatted for a bit, also. She obligingly filled me in on events on the birthing unit. Since births were down for several days there was no crisis generated by my sick call. By the time she hung up my ear was tired and I was getting hungry again.
I was trying to decide what I was hungry for when the phone rang for the third time. I had a sinking feeling it was the evening supervisor at the hospital frantically looking for nurses to cover the tidal wave of laboring patients that were all showing up at the same time. The answering machine was a hair’s breath away from beginning its message when I finally picked it up. My fears were groundless. Elaine Barclay was on the other end of the line.
She courteously asked about my trip home and how I was doing. I replied with the usual responses, and decided to omit the pouring rain of the end of my drive and my miserable thirty-six hours upon return.
“I’m glad you are all right,” Elaine went on in her pleasant voice. “Ross and I both came down with a nasty bug Sunday night. We were hoping we didn’t pass it on to you.”
Fortunately she had something else on her mind, and went right on. “When Ross got home Saturday, I told him all about our conversation. We talked a long time about Mely and the past and there’s something Ross remembered that may help you.”
“Anything would be appreciated,” I encouraged. “It is wonderful of you to take an interest and get back to me like this.”
“It is only this: Claire Marsh and her daughter attended our wedding. I knew Claire had, but I didn’t remember the daughter being there. Ross says he does, because he danced with her once at the reception. She was married and her husband was away on business. Now, Ross says the only reason this whole thing came back to him is because the husband went to college where he did, at Penn State, and not only that, they both majored in chemistry.”
This was all very well, I thought, but hardly information that could get me anywhere in putting the pieces together of Amelia Marsh’s life. But Elaine was just giving me the preliminaries.
“This is what I called to tell you,” my informant went on. “Ross remembers Claire’s daughter’s name, too, because it is the same as his hometown. Not only was her husband a chemist and graduate of the same school, but also this woman’s name was Rosamond. And married, her name was Rosamond Marsh Reed!” Elaine giggled. “When we started trying to remember things Ross came up with this. Do you remember me telling you I thought Claire might be in Richmond, Virginia because I had some recollection of her daughter living there?”
“If they do, the names you two have come up with will help me find them,” I said positively. Rosamond Marsh Reed of Richmond? This whole thing was getting more incredible!
“Twenty-seven years is a long time,” Elaine said unnecessarily, “but you never know. Sometimes people still do stay in the same place.”
“Your husband wouldn’t happen to remember Rosamond’s husband’s name would he?” I asked hopefully.
“I just knew you were going to ask me that,” Elaine answered ruefully. “He’s been agonizing over it, but he isn’t sure. He thinks it was Frank or Franklin, for some reason, but that’s really a guess.”
“All guesses welcome,” I replied cheerfully. It was tempting to tell her about the events of the week, but in the end I refrained from doing so. Without a specific reason not to, it seemed wise to keep all of the past history about Leonard Marsh within the parameters of the few people who were already involved. It was true I had extended beyond that to Everett and Judy, but my son and his wife arguably were already involved. How would Mrs. Barclay feel if she found out her surrogate uncle had been a hit man for the federal government? Perhaps it was better if she never knew. I would have to ponder that one some more.
Elaine thanked me again for personally delivering her legacy. I thanked her again for calling with more information, and invited her to do so again anytime. She was assured she would be informed if there was a break through on finding the murderer.
After she hung up I called telephone information for Richmond, Virginia, and asked if there was a listing for a Franklin or a Rosamond Reed. There wasn’t.
Just before falling asleep that night I realized exactly six weeks had passed since my neighbor had met her demise. I picked up on that thought again moments after opening my eyes on Thursday morning. I lay back against my pillows and contemplated all the facts accumulated by my compadres and myself since that awful afternoon, going over bits and pieces as I had so many countless times before. One of my goals had been to learn more about Amelia Marsh and I had certainly done that.
“The only problem is,” I said out loud to my silent, friendly bedroom, “the more I know, the more there seems to be to find out. It’s rather like a bottomless pit.”
The repair man for my dryer was due to show up any time between nine and eleven, so I pushed aside the mental files and went about the business of making myself reasonably presentable.
The dryer did need a new heating element. The service call and the part were not cheap, but I paid up gladly. Many modern conveniences do not impress me, but hanging clothes out on the line has never given me any satisfaction, even when the winter is not coming on.
The remaining part of Thursday, Friday, and Saturday passed by routinely. My mother called from Arizona to talk about the holidays. I planted all of my bulbs.
Saturday night, my first back on shift at the hospital since before my jaunt to Texas, was a busy one. It was also significant in that the nurse who floated up to the post partum unit from the surgical floor had an aunt and uncle who lived in my neighborhood. In fact, they lived directly across the street from Mrs. Marsh’s residence. Well, former residence. At three in the morning during a lull in activity, she sought me out with the unsolved murder case on her mind and told me these things.
Marie was about forty, a heavy woman with long flaxen hair she wore unfashionably in braids wound around her head. Her light blue eyes were very inquisitive and her manner not especially tactful. Coming across as nosy rather than interested rather put me off, but I was nice and we struck up a conversation. It helped that all she wanted was my confirmation on facts she already knew, and my attention as she talked about the murder from her relatives’ point of view. It was exciting to be so close to such a thing happening, but scary, too; didn’t I think so? Nod from me. Auntie had a boxer, though a gentle dog if he wasn’t startled, but good protection from intruders, so she and uncle were never too nervous. Agreement from me, protection was adequate. Plus, no one else in the neighborhood or in the county had been killed so it wasn’t a serial killing type of crime, was it? Probably not, I agreed again. The police had been very courteous in their interview, uncle said. Did I think so? I did. They had come twice, always wanting to know if auntie or uncle had seen anyone hanging around Mrs. Marsh’s house that day.
“Which they didn’t,” I filled in, tired of nodding. “Your relatives both work during the day, don’t they?”
“Well, yes, they do,” Marie did the agreeing this time, but I looked up sharply from the salad I had been stabbing with my fork. Was there a slight hesitation in her voice? She caught my look and smiled at me nervously. I looked back at her levelly and said nothing. An entire thirty seconds must have gone by.
“It isn’t right not to tell everything you know,” her voice faltered, “is it? My husband says it isn’t. But I don’t want to get anyone into trouble, and I don’t want to get involved, either.” Marie’s expression turned defiant.
There were only ten minutes left to my break. I had to make it all count and get this woman to spill the beans. My heart was racing, but outwardly it was crucial to maintain serenity or Marie might scoot.
“If there is something you want to tell me,” I said gently, “I will pass it on to the police without telling how I know. You must want to do that, or you wouldn’t be talking to me about this.” An idea cropped up. “Did you volunteer to float to ob tonight so you could talk to me?”
“Maybe,” she allowed cautiously. “And how could you do that; tell the police something without telling them how you know…?” Marie was getting edgy. “Besides, they didn’t know who he was.”
At that moment my impatience with any and all of the worst qualities of the human race almost got the better of me. I wanted to reach over the table, grab her by the throat and yell, “How do you know that, you stupid woman? How could you withhold information for six weeks while the authorities are expending all their energy and the tax payers’ money to try and find a killer?”
If that technique would have worked or not, I will never know. It seemed doubtful at the time. Instead I drew on all of my reserve of self-control and reached across the table to lightly touch her hand.
“Marie, this must be bothering you terribly. Can you live with it? There must be a way to get the information to the police and keep you out of it. I have a pretty good rapport with the detective in charge of the case. He’ll trust me.”
Fat lie, I thought. Rightly so, David White does not trust me, but he would understand the deception.
More precious seconds went by. I was getting frantic, thinking the nurse keeping an eye on my patient would call me back before Marie eased her conscience. More than anything I wanted to know about what she and her relatives were withholding.
Finally she came out with it. Over the lunch hour on the day Amelia Marsh died Marie’s uncle was supposed to be on a service call but he had stopped at home to take a little catnap. The man admitted to his niece he snuck home for a power nap whenever he had the chance. Just a thirty-minute snooze, Marie said, and when he got up to leave he casually took a look out of the front window. An elderly man was walking up to Mrs. Marsh’s front door. The time had been about twelve-thirty.
Once she got started Marie was an open faucet. In the next four minutes I found out uncle and aunt told Marie their secret when she came on to them with the same curiosity she had extended to me. By then they were getting nervous about keeping this information to themselves and decided their not so timid niece might have some advice. Uncle’s employer had reprimanded him once already for unauthorized detours home. The man was afraid he might lose his job this time. In the last full minute of our discourse Marie said the visitor looked like an older man, perhaps sixty, and wore rather formal black clothing. Since at the time he didn’t know how important it would be, that was all her uncle remembered. He was quite sure he had never seen the man before.
“Don’t leave this morning without getting back to me first,” I ordered Marie as we both headed back to our duties. “I’ll think of something.”
My patient’s labor pattern was stalled but she did not want any intervention, at least not yet. Since her physician was happy to sleep rather than try to coax the lady into medication to speed things up, I made the mother-to-be and her family as comfortable as possible and let things coast along. Of course this situation allowed me time to make good on what I had told Marie. Instead of joining in on the conversation going on at the nurse’s station, I went into the stock room to straighten up supplies and to rack my brain. I had to figure out a way to pass on the information Marie had given me to the police without breaking my promise to her and maybe put her uncle’s employment at risk.
Why I cared about saving the man’s job for him I couldn’t say, except Marie had taken a risk to share their secret, and that made me feel some responsibility. It seemed to me, between the three of them—or four, if Marie’s husband had been informed—they could have thought of something. I did not consider myself any cleverer than average mankind.
What I was beginning to consider myself was devious. At seven-thirty, joining Marie as she walked out to the parking lot, I put forth self-assurance and control.
“Don’t worry about this, and tell your aunt and uncle not to worry. After I talk to the detective in charge of the case, he’ll understand. Of course he has to know about this man in black and he’ll come back to talk to them, you know that can’t be avoided?”
She nodded, and had nothing to say in reply. Whether she was speechless from apprehension or fatigue, I couldn’t tell. Twelve-hour shifts can be rough, especially at night.
“I’ve been going over this ever since you told me, and I wouldn’t be surprised if your uncle’s employer never has to know at all. Why would he?”
“Well, uncle thought the police might want his boss to confirm his hours and where he was supposed to be.” Marie wasn’t totally brain dead from the long shift.
“Okay let’s say that it does come out that your uncle stopped at home that day. So much time has gone by since that afternoon, who’s to question why? He could have torn his shirt or forgotten something.”
Marie gave me a smile and nodded at this possibility. “That is a good idea. I will talk to him tonight.”
“Whatever happens,” I urged, “he must tell the truth now. Who knows? If this leads to catching the killer he could be a hero. His boss couldn’t argue with that, could he?”
“No,” she said slowly, but then with dismay, “but this won’t come out in the newspaper, will it?”
With reckless abandon I said, “Of course not. Not until this is solved, at least. The police won’t want to risk tipping this mystery man off.”
That made sense to Marie. Looking relieved, she left me at my car and walked over to her own.
On a normal day I can be ready to slide under the covers ten minutes after parking my car in the garage. That’s what I wanted to do. But this morning I had to decide what to do about this new revelation. It was Sunday so that complicated matters. After twenty minutes of floor pacing, the only course of action open seemed to be another consultation with Detective White. It wasn’t likely he would be on duty on a Sunday morning, but at least it would go on record I had tried to reach him promptly. The officer who took my call was someone unfamiliar, both in name and voice. He was polite. I put no urgency into it, asking him to leave a message for the detective to call me back at his earliest convenience. I was beginning to feel like a nuisance, but thought when the detective heard what I had to tell him, he would get over any annoyance he might initially have. The desk officer took my number, which was probably not necessary by this time, and did not volunteer when I might expect the return call.
For a change I left the ringer on to the bedroom extension and fell asleep at last. No one bothered me and I woke up on my own volition about five hours later. The return phone call would not come until Monday morning. In the time frame that lapsed between some other interesting facts presented themselves.
George called late in the afternoon. He caught me wrapped in a towel, my hair dripping, and he had to wait a minute while I turned my Strauss waltzes down a few decibels.
“Are you up?” he asked unnecessarily. Why do people do that? I swallowed a sarcastic reply to say simply that I was and had been for a while.
“You don’t have to work tonight, do you?” Another brilliant question.
George knew very well if I didn’t sleep all afternoon it was because I planned to go back to bed sometime again that night instead of to the hospital.
“No,” I said neutrally, “why?”
“Well, if you aren’t going to church or something, maybe you’d be free to get back up with me. In fact, I wouldn’t mind if you’d bring that sweet old lady with you, if she could come on short notice again.”
I readjusted the towels, one around my head and the other around my torso, and considered his invitation.
“Am I to understand you want a pow-wow of the vigilante committee committed to unraveling the mystery surrounding Mrs. Amelia Marsh?” Flippancy won out at last.
“Something like that,” he admitted. “I hate to say it, but you’ve got me hooked on this thing.”
“Are you saying you’ve spent your weekend on the computer following more leads?”
“Some of it. I think you ladies could help me out here.”
“Well, well. A rare thing, a man who admits he could use the expertise and brain power of not only one, but two females,” I teased.
“That’s me all over, a sensitive male,” George agreed drolly. “What about it?”
“There’s no way I can speak for Miss Carey, George, but I’m up for it. I have some news for you, too, actually. It would be a nice touch if you phoned Anne to ask her yourself. She’s the one who might have plans for tonight, church or otherwise. She’s quite a socialite. She likes you, though. If she’s free, she’ll come.”
George can be shy. He wanted me to call Anne, but I insisted he do it so he took her phone number down and said he would get back to me. Not knowing how long that would be, I took the cordless with me into the bathroom and proceeded with my toilette. Completely dried off and moisturized, I picked up the phone again on the second ring. It was Anne Carey this time. Apparently George had charm I had never observed. Her reedy little voice was cheer itself as she told me we were to meet George in an hour at his house. She had cancelled her other plans and was changing into slacks. More casual dress called for. Didn’t I think so? That nice Mr. Thomas was providing a light supper, and would I like to drive or should she?
“Honestly,” I said out loud after she hung up, “what in the world have I started?”
We were twenty minutes late. More surprises. George’s light supper was a very respectable chef’s salad and a loaf of French bread. What a relief, no pizza and no fried chicken.
“How did you put this together on such short notice?” I was curious.
“I took the chance you would accept my invitation,” said George. “If you hadn’t come I’d be eating this myself for the next three nights.”
We sat down to eat before adjourning to his computer room, and between bites I shocked them both with my story of Marie and her revelation. I admit in the hours since she had come to me, I had wondered a couple of times about the authenticity of Marie’s tale, but neither of my companions seemed to have a moment’s doubt. In fact Anne triumphantly verified the story. She had seen the appliance van in the driveway across from Amelia Marsh’s own drive on at least two prior occasions.
“But not on that Wednesday,” she clarified. “I was out to lunch that day.
When George wondered out loud why the neighbor didn’t put his company van in the garage out of sight, Anne knew the answer.
“It looks too high to fit,” she said.
“But no one else saw him come home that day,” George said thoughtfully, buttering himself another piece of bread.
“Not a surprise,” I answered, and Anne nodded in agreement. “The office is around the corner, and the way Barry’s desk is situated he doesn’t have much of a view anyway. I was asleep, and everyone else was at work, the very reason no one saw anything.
“Marie’s uncle may have noticed how deserted the street is mid-day.” I added. “One reason he feels safe to sneak his little cat naps when he’s not too far from home.”
“Did he see the man come out again?” Anne asked this.
“No, he didn’t. He was on his way out himself as the mystery person walked up the driveway. Marie says he didn’t even see Amelia answer the door.”
“Does this shy neighbor of yours have a name by any chance?” George asked wryly, “Or do we call him ‘x’ or something?”
“I think we’ll call the man in the black suit ‘x’,” I said, “but I am ashamed to admit Marie just called him ‘uncle’ and I went with that. I knew it would be no trouble to find out. You are such a great source of facts, Miss Carey, do you happen to know?”
She thought about that for a moment. “I think the last name is Reiman,” she said with a little hesitation, “but I don’t know their first names. They moved in last summer.” She looked at me, “What are you going to do about this, Sally? You can’t keep it to yourself.”
“Of course not. I’ve already put in a call to my contact at the police department. He’ll probably get my message tomorrow. I didn’t make it urgent.”
“After hearing from the FBI last week, this guy probably wonders how you could beat that one,” George commented with a grin.
“He should be working doubly hard to solve this just to be done with me,” I agreed without offense, “but what do you make of this unknown man coming to see Mrs. Marsh?”
“Dressed in a black suit, sort of elderly,” George reiterated slowly. “That still leaves it pretty wide open.”
“But it is very likely this is the person who killed her,” Anne Carey added somberly. “The timing is right, and you knocked on her door an hour and a half later getting no answer, Sally. I know some elderly men, of course. Amelia did, too, but none of them are in the habit of wearing dress clothes in the middle of the week unless they’re attending a funeral.”
“I suppose it is possible this Mr. X knows about the murder, didn’t do it, and is afraid he’ll be blamed because of the timing,” I theorized, but added practically, “but that’s not very probable.”
“We have to consider another possibility,” George put forth. “If “x” doesn’t live nearby and he didn’t hear it on the news, he may not know Mrs. Marsh was killed that day. Maybe the guy had a perfectly legitimate reason to come and see her, left her alive, and has no idea what happened.”
“Possible, but again not likely,” was my take on that.
George and Anne agreed. All three of us thought Marie’s uncle saw Amelia’s murderer approaching her front door at twelve-thirty. This was some real progress. We could only hope the investigating officers could get some more crucial information when they interviewed him personally.
“Marie didn’t say anything about a vehicle,” I remembered in retrospect. “I wonder how he came.”
Because we were both familiar with the layout of the housing complex Miss Carey and I knew Amelia’s caller could park his car a lot of places without being noticed. There was some public parking for visitors near the office, and again Barry could have missed it. The park was nearby. In their extensive interviews of the residents of The Hedges, the police found no one who could give them a decent description of an unknown vehicle. If there were any inquisitive elderly invalids who watched the streets, none of them had been at their windows that day. Anne knew this from her contacts, and I knew it from my conversations with Detective White.
“If this lead cracks the case, there won’t be much use for what I’ve got,” George said as we helped him clear the table. We ladies told him we still wanted to know what he had, and form our own opinion on that.
George had moved an extra chair into his office in deference for his guests, which made things a bit cozy, but not impossible. He set his own weight into the well-worn office chair in front of his computer and got down to the business at hand.
“Wednesday while I was working, I remembered one of Robin’s friends has a father who works for the feds, immigration or something. We met once at a parents’ weekend at the college.”
Here I explained to Anne who Robin was. George apologized for not making himself clear and went on.
“One thing led to another, and I got up with him pretty late Wednesday night. We talked for awhile, and eventually I told him quite a bit about our situation here, trying to find out past history on this couple, and about our run in with the FBI. I hope it was okay to fill him in.”
“How could you not?” I reassured him.
George went on. His acquaintance knew a longtime federal employee who kept track of statistics and logistics in Washington. He would do some checking on his own, he promised, and if possible have this man, a Dennis Chenowski, get in touch with George. Dennis had done just that, on Friday night, and the two of them hit it off. After a long conversation, Dennis promised to see what he could do. It was clear he had the credentials to access files George could not, and to do so without the alarms going off that could earn us another visit from Stoner and Hinckley. Dennis admitted both he and the other agent had done a little checking on George and myself first. In Dennis’ case, that included reading the report submitted on us by none other than the federal agents just mentioned. Not being too alarmed by that, and not getting any negative vibes by his chat with George, he had taken some of his own time on Saturday to look up what George wanted to know. He called back Sunday afternoon and what he had to say sent George to the telephone asking Anne and myself to come and see him.
“Just what was it you asked Mr. Chenowski to find out?” Anne asked politely when George stopped talking.
“It seems you ladies are drawing a lot of blanks about your deceased friend,” George responded promptly. “This guy was able to dig up quite a lot, oh excuse me, poor choice of words.”
To my amazement, George turned bright red and was stammering like a schoolboy. Miss Carey reverted to her years of professional teaching finesse and reassured him, while I lowered my head to hide a smile. “Do go on, George,” she urged.
“So, I asked him if there was a way to learn more about the Marshes while they were in England during the war,” he continued, mollified, “and he said he would be glad to try. That’s what he did yesterday, I guess, which was a big surprise to me. I didn’t expect to hear from the guy for a while.”
“He must have found out something interesting,” I observed, getting a little impatient. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have brought us over here.”
“Yeah, he did,” George continued, refusing to be rushed. I thought this business was giving him many opportunities to be the center of attention, maybe one reason he was enjoying it. He pulled a legal pad out from under his keyboard as I made my comment, and now he consulted it
“Some of this we already knew. Three things stand out that we didn’t. First, the Marshes were married in April alright, in London, by an army military chaplain, and the ceremony is on record in the Marsh file, but the funny part is, there is no civil document to back it up.”
“What?” I said after Anne and I ingested this for a few seconds, “are you trying to say the Marshes weren’t legally married?”
George shrugged. “Who can say for sure? Dennis says there was a notation that Leonard would present the civil document as soon as he returned from an emergency trip to France. His excuse for the delay was there had been a glitch in the wording and it had been resubmitted to the appropriate civil magistrate for correction.”
Anne’s brow was creased in a frown as she listened. She brightened as her memories surfaced. “Amelia talked about her wedding to Leonard once or twice. I was interested, it being one of those wartime weddings, you know. She said it was decided upon and done quickly, like so many were. They fitted it in between Leon