We digested that bombshell for a while. The inference was, of course, that perhaps Leonard had been married to Claire Marsh at one time, and certainly that Rosamond was his daughter. But he had to have divorced Claire, if indeed they ever had been married, in order for his brother to marry her. It was more plausible to suppose Rosamond was Leonard’s child out of wedlock, and his brother Arthur had married her after the conception. George pointed out the obvious, that this was the only explanation for only one of Claire’s children being on the receiving end of the life insurance. This revelation could explain what Elaine Barclay had alluded to, that during the last years of their marriage there had been hurt between Leonard and Amelia. It might also explain why Amelia decided to leave New Jersey and join her friend June in the Midwest. It still did not explain murder.
While we fretted over the whole thing, I made the decaf coffee and went back to the kitchen to pour and to serve. Anne declined tea and joined George and I in a mug of the brew. It was probable George had been indulging over the weekend, as he offered no dessert. That was fine with me. I had eaten a blueberry pancake when I got out of bed.
Studying the steam rising from her cup, Anne mused, “If only there was a way to talk with Claire Marsh, if she’s still alive. She should have some answers.”
“Have you tried to find her?” George asked casually.
“Not really,” I admitted. I told them about my unsuccessful attempt to find a phone listing for Claire’s daughter and her husband. “After all this time it seemed unlikely Claire would have her own phone number even if she still lived in Richmond.”
George swiveled in his chair and put his own coffee mug down. “There’s no harm in trying,” he said philosophically.
And darn it all, if ten minutes later he hadn’t come up with a phone number in Richmond, Virginia, for a Mrs. Claire Marsh.
Since it was between nine-thirty and ten out east, and our Claire Marsh had to be about eighty, it was unanimous: the phone call would have to wait until the following day. It was a hard pill to swallow. We were all dying to know if this was our woman. My suggestion was that Anne makes the phone call, and George seconded the motion. With just a little bit of protest, her initial idea being I should do it, Miss Carey came around to our way of thinking.
“But we really must get together again soon,” she urged. “I could phone to let each of you know what happens with my effort to locate Amelia’s sister-in-law, but Sally should have more to tell us after she talks to the detective again.”
We came to a mutual decision that I would call Anne, then George, early Monday evening. We would exchange any new developments and go from there.
Our coffee was gone. Anne and I refused refills, and in mutual accord got up to leave. That was postponed for about fifteen minutes as George took Anne out to the backyard to meet the animals, and I quickly stacked the dishes in the dishwasher. We thanked George for a nice supper and an interesting evening.
“You’re welcome,” he said cheerfully, standing out on the front porch as we got into my car, and going inside only after we had started off.
“Such a nice man,” observed Anne, giving me a sidelong glance.
“Yes, he is,” I agreed. I told her briefly how George and I came to know each other.
“Any chance of a romance in your future?” she asked coyly when I stopped talking.
“Slim and none,” I retorted. In the silence that followed this pronouncement I was afraid I had offended Miss Carey with my abruptness so I added, “I just don’t think of George that way.”
“Maybe you don’t,” was her response, with an emphasis on the “you”.
Trying to keep the tone of my voice light I responded, “And what is that supposed to mean?”
She chortled. “Now don’t mind an old lady’s observations. I just think George is very fond of you.”
“We’re friends,” I said firmly. This was not a line of discussion I wanted to pursue but Anne was not easily diverted.
“Haven’t you noticed that very few men are able to be alone? In the movies and novels single men abound, but in real life most men seem to need someone. The solitary life is far more common with women.”
I agreed with her, albeit conditionally, as I knew several women who at least thought they couldn’t survive without male companionship.
“And since you have opened the subject matter,” it was an ideal moment to turn the tables on my companion and we still had about ten more miles to her driveway, “have you never considered marriage?”
“Oh yes, twice,” Anne answered readily.
When she didn’t go on I continued boldly, “Care to share? Do you mind talking about it?”
She chuckled. “No, not at all. It was years ago and no one has asked for a very long time. Amelia did, when we were first getting to know each other.”
The night was quiet and the road almost deserted. Our vehicle hummed along in the dark and I listened intently. She seemed to sense my interest and talked easily.
“There was a boy I grew up with, and by the time I finished high school we had an understanding. His parents had managed to send him on to a two-year business college, and we were going to announce our engagement when he graduated. But, the war came, you know, to us too. He was drafted and sent to the Pacific theatre.”
It was rude to interrupt, but I was caught up in what I thought she was going to say. “Oh, no, he was killed?”
“No,” Miss Carey replied calmly, “he was wounded, and while recovering in Hawaii he fell in love with his nurse.”
“That must have been awful for you.”
“Well, yes it was,” she allowed, “but time heals. A maiden aunt thought the best anecdote for me was to continue my own education, and she was right. With her financial aid I went on to college myself. Later I realized we were probably not as well suited as we might have been, and it was all for the best.”
There was a minute of easy silence between us before I ventured, “And the second time?”
“The second time I considered marriage, I was almost thirty. There was a man at the church I was attending at the time, a widower with three children. He had a good farm and he was a charming man.” Miss Carey twittered self-consciously. “I was always too thin and my nose too long, and his attention made me feel so attractive. To tell you the truth, Sally, I always wondered what he saw in me.”
“You are too hard on yourself,” I protested sincerely. “I have seen photographs of many women in those days who were thin with prominent noses on the arm of a good looking guy. Besides, you have fine eyes and a great smile. I looked at the pictures you have hanging on your wall when we had dinner together so I know what you looked like when you were younger. What happened?”
“He courted me for over a year and we did care for each other. We talked about getting married. But there were problems and eventually, we drifted apart.”
It was natural, at least for me, to want to ask what those problems were. It was on the tip of my tongue to do that, but I bit it, and stayed silent. If Anne Carey wanted to share the details she would.
“So,” she went on after a couple of minutes, “I remained single. But it’s been a good life. I’ve had many good times and teaching was what I was born for, I think. Not every one can say they found their calling in life.”
The world would be a far better place, I thought, if everyone had my friend’s outlook. Before Anne pulled out of her reminiscence we were home, and the subject of how George and I felt about each other was not again, thankfully, broached.
It would be appropriate to say that Monday morning all hell broke loose. There is no better way of putting it. Detective Sergeant David White called me promptly at nine o’clock. After a few seconds of listening to what I had to say he abruptly cut me off, saying it would be better to hear it face to face. Okay, that was fine. Should I come to the station again? No, he would come to the house, and I should expect him in twenty minutes. I was already dressed and could see going out for breakfast might not happen. I ate a bowl of stale cereal, nursed some orange juice, and put the coffee on to brew.
The good officer arrived in eighteen minutes, his demeanor totally professional. I was wondering if he would even accept a cup of java, but he did. We sat down across from each other at my dining room table.
“Start again,” he commanded, “with what you were telling me on the phone.”
So I repeated my entire conversation with Marie, carefully keeping it as close to what had actually been said on Saturday night as I could without having the advantage of a photographic memory. It sounded presumptuous now, but there was no choice but to also admit the promise I made to Marie before we parted company Sunday morning, to protect her uncle.
My usually friendly police contact listened to my entire narrative with no expression on his face, no response. It was unnerving. Whatever I had expected, that was not it. Finally he asked me some specifics about Marie herself, but I couldn’t help him very much there, I hardly knew her. I suggested he call the personnel department at the hospital, or ask her aunt and uncle.
“Why do I get the feeling you don’t believe me?” I queried. “My story is fantastic, I grant you, but it’s easy enough to check out.”
“Why have you waited so long to report this?” he asked in return, rather than answer me.
“Was I supposed to find out where you live and walk up to your front door?” my turn for a question. I admit I was defensive. “I called the police department, as you know. The officer on duty was not familiar to me, and I had no idea how familiar he is with Mrs. Marsh’s case. He did not indicate you were reachable, and it seemed best to wait until I could get up with you personally. This man has been sitting on this information for weeks. What is one more day?”
“That is not for you to decide,” he shot back sternly. “You should have reported all of this yesterday morning, as soon as you found out.”
“Well excuse me!” I shot back. “Since this is my first time to be mixed up in a murder, I am not quite up on protocol. Next time I’ll do better.”
We glared at each other for about five seconds. David White shifted in his chair and said with a sigh, “How about a refill on the coffee while I make a phone call?”
I got up and brought the pot, filling both of our cups while he used my telephone. He spoke softly and I made a point of trying not to hear what he said. Five minutes later he continued his lecture.
“How is it that you are always right in the middle of this?” he demanded. “Every time I turn around you’ve come up with some new piece of information, or an idea. I thought we had reached the limit when those two feds were standing in my office last week, but now this!”
We looked each other straight in the eye and I wondered if now was the right time to confront him with some questions of my own. Deciding to go for it, knowing full well acting on emotional impulse could be a mistake, I replied, “Yes, I have been right in the middle of this all along, haven’t I? And you encouraged that at first. You know, on the day I sat in your office after we went through Mrs. Marsh’s personal effects, you were just so patient listening to me, making time for an interested neighbor of the deceased. At first I thought what a considerate policeman you were, which is just what a middle-aged widow is supposed to think, isn’t it? But somewhere in the back of my mind it bothered me. Just because we met before and I was the nurse at the birth of your daughter did not explain your encouragement, did it?”
Now I paused, but my eyes still held his, as they do my son’s when I am making a point and not to be put off. David White did not look away, but his gaze flickered and he grimaced.
It was too good an opportunity not to carry the ball straight through. “I’ve been a suspect right along, haven’t I?”
Giving him time to take another swallow of coffee and collect his thoughts, I followed, “Now do you want me down at the station?”
“No,” he answered shortly. Fifteen seconds of silence, another shift in the chair, and another sigh.
“Okay,” he said finally, “here it is. You were the person she was expecting that Wednesday, and the door was wide open. You were the one who summoned the manager, and who with him discovered the body. That made you a suspect immediately. Your history and your personality lowered the odds considerably, meaning you have been up to now in your life a respectable member of society with no history of mental instability, and so on. But there was the matter of your husband’s death.”
My eyebrows did a lift, and the expression on my face was indicative of the surprise he had just given me. “My husband’s death?” I echoed.
He nodded. “After a long and happy marriage you lost him suddenly. That can unbalance some people.” He put up a hand to stop any flow out of my mouth. “Let me go on. None of our inquiries supported the theory you might have gone off the deep end. But we found out before you did what Amelia Marsh’s history was, and her husband’s clandestine occupation. Your husband had been a career military officer. Leonard Marsh was a covert agent for the military and some of his assignments were to do things you might have found, well, shocking. It was possible she had confided in you and you might have some twisted resentments about what he had done, and what your husband stood for.”
“That seems pretty far fetched,” I objected, when he paused a second.
“I agree,” David White said, “but I’m not the only person working on this. All possibilities have to be considered. Two days after the murder you were pretty well excluded. After we met with the lawyers at her house and found those things missing, you were back in again. How many people could have taken those missing items and gotten away with it?” He held up a hand again to keep me quiet. “If Miss Carey hadn’t mentioned the planner, it would never have been missed. Then you bring up the missing Bible, but only after she started us looking for missing items again. Chances are someone would have told us about the Bible eventually, anyway.”
Once again I got to talk. “Why haven’t you searched this house?”
He had an answer for everything. “Because we didn’t want you to know you were suspect. By that time you could have gotten rid of everything, and then you would have known you were being considered. I can tell you, Sally, that from the very beginning I’ve been sure you didn’t do it. But as far as the whole investigation goes, every time we’re about to cross you off the list, you go and do some crazy cockeyed thing.”
“Oh? Like what? I didn’t invite Marie to sit down and confide in me.”
“Like wanting to take the jewelry to Texas.”
That gave me pause. “The police found something suspicious about that? The police could only have known if they got a call from the law office.”
“They did. Mr. Bedeman was told to contact us immediately if anyone asked about Mrs. Marsh’s affairs.”
“It did occur to me they were mighty congenial about letting me be the courier. That was one of the things that made me wonder. I thought I would have to do some hard selling to convince them. But honestly, I know I’m not objective about this, but surely I haven’t given the impression of being the kind of unstable person who would throttle my neighbor? There is nothing in my past, even grieving about Michael, that lends itself to that.”
“No,” he agreed. “That’s my point. There is no reason to think you did it, except you keep coming up with stuff.” He eyed me contemplatively. “The feeling is, maybe you are coming up with all these ideas to make sure the scent is off of you.”
It was not a nice thing to realize there were people in the law enforcement community who suspected I was a nut, and a homicidal one at that.
“You know,” I said deliberately, “why I am interested in this, and Anne Carey, too? Along the way we have sucked my friend George Thomas in. By your own admission, the police don’t think there is any link between Amelia Marsh’s past and her death. I have always thought otherwise.” Now I put up my hand to stop him from interrupting. “There’s no tangible reason for it, it’s just a feeling, and it gets stronger the deeper I go.”
No reply. David White folded his arms and lowered his head to his chest.
I let him think for a short time, then asked, “What now?”
He pushed his cup away and slowly got to his feet. Not wanting to look up at him, I got up too.
“Your correct assumption doesn’t change much,” he said, reaching for his hat. “I’m picking up a partner, and we’ll go find Mr. Reiman and take him to lunch.” He added, rather sarcastically, I thought, “We’ll try to be gentle with him.”
“Will I find out what he says?”
Detective White thought that one way or another, I would.
Before the afternoon was over not only Mr. Reiman had been questioned—his first name was Henry—but his wife and Marie as well. I was summoned over to the Reiman’s home about one, and guessed the unhappy man had been forced to take the afternoon off, perhaps as punishment for holding out on the police. All three of them glared at me when I walked in the front door, held open for me by a uniformed policewoman, the same one I had seen on two other occasions. Her look was polite and noncommittal. This was not a pleasant day at all, first being chastised by my formerly friendly contact with the law, and now considered an enemy by the Reimans.
Detective White asked me to repeat what Marie told me, ergo what I had told him. Then I was excused. Before leaving I looked at Marie and told her I was sorry for any problems caused because she confided in me, but there was no help for it. A murderer had to be caught. No answer, just another dirty look. In retrospect, I can say Mr. Reiman did not lose his job or lose too much dignity, and Marie never worked on the maternity ward again, so we never had to try very hard to avoid each other. It took several weeks, but the Reimans eventually got over their offense enough to wave if we saw each other.
Feeling depressed, I dusted, vacuumed, and scrubbed my kitchen floor, trying hard not to think too much about anything. But a replay of the confrontation with the neighbors kept coming back to mind. Henry Reiman was a thin, middle-aged man with thinning brown hair. He told the very same story his niece told me, and although he had to repeat it several times he was consistent, and perhaps, although not admittedly, relieved to finally get rid of his secret. Mrs. Helen Reiman was an older version of Marie, which told me her sister was Marie’s mother. She totally corroborated everything her husband said, meaning she got the same story from him Wednesday evening when she got home.
There weren’t as many details as the police or I would have liked there to be. Mr. Reiman never saw the front of the mystery man. I wondered if all of the elderly men Amelia had known would be dressed up in black suits and paraded before poor Henry. I hoped all of them had an alibi for that afternoon.
I was off the hook. Marie had come to me with her story, it was authentic and provided a clue for the investigation. I should have felt vindicated, smug even. Again, emotions are not easy to decipher. It was not pleasant to be considered a murder suspect, even if not a very plausible one. Maybe it was a bad idea to force the detective sergeant’s hand. As a non-verbalized possibility it was easier to swallow than a hard fact.
Feeling blue did not make me forget about Anne Carey’s assignment. By five o’clock I was restless, eager to hear what she had to say. It was as bad as being a teenager and waiting for that certain boy to call you. At exactly five-thirty one I dialed my elderly friend’s number. She answered on the second ring.
“I am nothing if not prompt and to the point,” I said after she greeted me with her usual cheer. “What happened?”
“She was home,” Anne took up my cue and didn’t waste words. “I caught her just getting home so that was fortunate. A younger woman answered. She’s a great-niece. The young woman had nice manners, and she must have taken me for a friend. She put her aunt on right away. Well, this Mrs. Marsh was surprised, I can tell you! She never questioned who I was.”
“What did she tell you?” Might as well get right to the quick.
“Well,” and here Miss Carey’s voice wavered, “she told me she was definitely the Claire Marsh we were looking for. Of course then I had little choice but to be the bearer of the bad tidings again, and that took a bit of time.”
“How did she take it?”
“She seemed to take it alright, not getting hysterical or anything. I don’t think she’s the hysterical type. At first she didn’t say anything, then she said she was very sorry. After that she asked how I found her, and I said we tried the Richmond phone directory, which was the truth. She didn’t ask how we knew she lived in Richmond.”
“And then?”
“Well,” she hesitated again, “well, that’s about it.”
“Oh.” I was at a loss. If it had been George I was talking to, I might have harangued him for not getting more information, but one really could not do that with a lady in her seventies, no matter how sharp she was.
Miss Carey spoke again. “She was very polite, and she thanked me for taking the trouble to let her know, but then she cut me off, really. When I called the Barclays they wanted to keep talking, so I guess I thought it would be the same this time. I wasn’t prepared when she ended our call like she did.”
The disappointment in her tone was unmistakable. “Please don’t be disappointed in yourself,” I soothed, “you did great. At least she talked to you. It was presumptuous of us to think she would bare her soul to some stranger. It was a shock to her, too. We don’t know what state her health is in.”
“Yes,” my partner seemed partially mollified, “but where do we go from here? We need the knowledge she may have to continue this.”
“That’s a good question,” I returned, “and I, for one, need some time to think about it.”
“But what about your day?” Anne countered. “How did you do, giving your new information to that Detective White?”
I told her all about it.
The end of that scenario was both of us consoling each other for a while, and then trying to decide who was going to call George and tell him everything. We were both in favor of the other party going it. In the end I gave in and agreed to make the call. Anne did offer to come over and be with me while I called, so we could sort of do it as a team, but when pressed admitted she had somewhere she was supposed to be at six-thirty. I let her off the hook and promised to be in touch again sometime on Tuesday.
When I got a hold of George half an hour later, he had just walked in the door. By that time I had decided to ask him out to dinner.
“I am seeing far too much of you,” I told him, “and Miss Carey, among others, may start to get the wrong idea. But I’m hungry and it will take awhile to tell you everything.”
“My secret crush is Miss Carey,” he confessed, “but you will do. Never mind who’s taking who to dinner. I’ll wash up and be at your place in half an hour. You decide where you want to eat, but for Pete’s sake make it casual. I’m not taking the time to change more than my shirt.”
I could not recall George and I ever eating anywhere together a step above casual, but hanging up the phone, I already felt better than I had since getting out of bed that morning. Looking down at the jeans and tee shirt I had been cleaning in, I hustled off to the bedroom to do some cleaning up of my own. Casual is one thing. Grunge is another.