Six days later I was on a plane bound for Baltimore. There I would pick up a rental car and head for Richmond, Virginia. The idea began to present itself while I was explaining all of the Monday happenings to George over lasagna and garlic bread.
During the salad I politely asked him about his own day. At the time it was rather interesting. Now I don’t recall what it was all about. When he finished he said, as expected, “your turn.”
It was easier to eat and tell him about Anne Carey’s conversation with Claire Marsh, than to start in on my own ordeal, as her experience was more straightforward. George nodded noncommittally, asking no questions and expressing no opinions. I gave him the benefit of the doubt, thinking he would have to mull over the situation before giving up any ideas.
Over coffee I told him about my own day. George’s eyebrows went up a notch, but again he just listened. It was very tempting to prod him a little, but I resisted the urge and quietly enjoyed my drink when I was through.
“We had it right the first time,” he said at last, after the waitress had given us both a refill.
“We did?” I said blankly.
“Yup. Don’t you remember? The night the old lady died, we ate together and wondered if you were a suspect.”
“Small comfort,” I retorted rather bitterly.
“You’re in the clear now,” he pointed out.
“I think I am. The authorities are probably trying to find out for sure if I set up the neighbors to plant that story.”
“Stop being so negative,” George reproved me. “The story is true and they know it. Whether or not they find the guy is another thing, but he’s real alright.”
We sat in more comfortable silence.
George spoke again. “What do you think Mrs. Claire Marsh knows that can help?”
After further thought I replied, “I think she has some more pieces of the puzzle.” It was then plans for another personal interview started taking shape. I asked George if he thought the man who had killed Amelia was someone who she knew from her recent life, or someone from her past. He said his guess was someone from the past.
“But heavens knows how it all comes together,” he added.
“George,” I asked him, “why do you suppose Inspector White came to the funeral?”
He looked at me quizzically. The question was out of left field.
“Maybe he thought it is like arson,” he answered after consideration, “you know, the guy who sets the fire liking to be around to see the response. What do you think?”
“That your assumption is a valid one. And, I think they checked every person out who was there, which includes me, of course. You’ll notice that angle didn’t give them an arrest.”
“Very good reasoning,” George approved. “Circumstantial maybe, but still, evidence our conclusion, this guy is an unknown, is right.”
“Do they have cheesecake here?” I asked him. We were at a small Italian/American diner that had only been open a few months. It was my first visit.
It was possible to visibly see his mind change gears again, but he swallowed the complaint he was going to make about females always jumping from subject to subject and said he thought they did. But George had been here before and eaten their fried ice cream. It was delicious. Couldn’t we have that? He knew I wanted to share dessert.
“Okay, fried ice cream. While we eat it I’ll tell you what I want to do next. Did you know I haven’t had a vacation in over two years?”
Getting to leave in less than a week was a bonus. My expectation was the preparations would take at least two, but everything fell into place. Early Tuesday morning I called the staffing co-coordinator, asking what my chances were of taking some time off with the understanding I would return before Thanksgiving. She said no one else was going to be on vacation, and only one person, not on my shift, was out on medical leave. You wouldn’t think anyone would want time off in early November, but that wasn’t always true. I asked what the chances were of covering my hours already scheduled. She would check with my charge nurse and call me back.
Two hours later the call came, but from Terry Babcock, my supervisor on the obstetrical unit. She was personable and not a bad boss, but we had never gotten to know each other, probably because she took her position just four weeks before I became a widow. I buried myself on the graveyard shift after that. We saw each other at staff meetings and training sessions.
Terry gave me her blessing for up to three weeks of vacation time saying it was definitely my turn, never mind the short notice. Gratified, I thanked her, and asked if I should get back with staffing.
“Just send in a written request as soon as you can,” Terry answered. “Plenty of people want to work a little extra for holiday shopping, and you’ll be covered.” We agreed I would work my scheduled hours the next two nights, Wednesday and Thursday, before starting my leave.
It crossed my mind after I hung up that the last time my plans had come together so smoothly was arranging with the law firm my trip to Texas. That had turned out to be a set up job. Further consideration convinced me this was unlikely now, but even if it were, what difference did it make? If this trip to Virginia was as profitable as the one to Texas had been, it was worth the time and money.
With that hurdle behind me I spent the rest of Tuesday and much of Wednesday making arrangements to be away for an extended time period. There was also the matter of booking my flight, a rental car, and informing my children what I was up to. That took a bit of doing with Janelle, who until then had no idea her mother was involved in a murder. In order to explain a trip out east, a trip out east not to visit my daughter, I had to tell her the whole story. Well, most of the story. Even now I glossed over the police’s suspicions about yours truly.
Janelle was still in Chicago with three weeks to go. I caught her Tuesday night in her hotel room, munching a dinner she had ordered from room service. It took over an hour to bring her up to date on events and the reason I would be away from home for up to three weeks. She was amazed, but reasonable. I promised to be back in touch from Virginia. Not a word was said about Robert.
Speaking with Everett gave me the opportunity to ask him if Joel had received the two shirts I sent him, size 4, with Batman decals. He had, that very day, and was asleep in one of them. Judy intended to call me Wednesday morning to let him say thank you, and so they did. But Tuesday night after finishing with Janelle I had no time left for a great deal of other subject matter. It took time to get them caught up. I skipped over my confrontation with Detective White with Everett, too, but left nothing else out. Judy and Everett were both enthusiastic and supportive about my plans. Everett stuck with his theory Amelia’s sister-in-law could be a gold mine. Another promise made to call from Richmond, so I mentally added the cost of long distance phone calls to my travel budget.
George and Anne insisted on driving me to Louisville on Sunday morning to catch my flight. I admit it was a relief not to worry about transportation to the airport. We had a pleasant breakfast in route, and chatted amicably about a number of things, none of them pertaining to the reason for my journey. Only during the hour wait until boarding time did we discuss possibilities. Again I promised phone calls to keep them current. They knew it was possible I would go from Richmond to New Jersey, depending on what I could learn from Claire Marsh.
As the plane left the runway I opened the card Anne Carey had pressed into my hand as she gave me a goodbye hug, instructing me in her best school teacher manner not to look at it until I was on my way. It was a five by seven greeting card with a bright, pretty Audubon scene on the front. Inside she had written:
“Sally, George and I will be with you in our thoughts and prayers, since we can’t go along. But it is not right for you to foot all of the expense. We are a team, you know! May this be a good adventure, and a profitable one! Love, Anne.”
Two large bills fell out into my lap when I opened the note.
It was late by the time I collected my luggage, my rental car, a nice sedan, and checked into my hotel. I was happy everything had gone smoothly, including the flight change in New York and the two-hour drive from the air terminal to Richmond. A few minutes past midnight I sunk down into a soft and fairly comfortable bed and was asleep almost at once. My reservations were for two nights so a check out time was an issue. I slept until two people laughing in the corridor outside my door aroused me. It was after eight.
Turning over, I considered how to approach Mrs. Claire Marsh. Her phone number was in my daily planner. Was it too early to try to call her now, and what was the best way to go about asking for an appointment? I had considered this the day before on the flight, and had not come up with any concrete plan of action. It might be too early. The call would wait. I showered, dressed, and went downstairs to the hotel café for breakfast with plenty of reading materials in hand.
It was after ten when I returned to my room and made the phone call. No answer, and no answering machine. What now? I was in no mood to do any sight seeing or shopping, with my mind entirely focused on the problem at hand. It was a possibility the lady I had come all this way to see was out for the day, or was even out of town for some reason. If so, this leg of my journey had been wasted, but it was a chance I had taken deliberately, so the object of my enquiry would not have too much time to think about our encounter.
I unpacked all of the notes taken down since Amelia Marsh’s death and organized them on the desk in my room. It was too early to call anyone back home, and there was nothing to tell them except here I was. Aimlessly I channel surfed on the television and watched thirty minutes go by before re-dialing; still no answer. I left the room, took a stroll around the hotel lobby, the indoor pool, and the gift shop. Returning to my room I checked the forecast on the weather channel; cool and partly cloudy. At exactly eleven-thirty I again dialed the number I now knew by heart, and this time someone answered.
The voice on the other end of the line was an elderly voice, clearly understood but with a slight quiver. My heart skipped a beat. Contact at last, so proceed cautiously Sally, you don’t want to mess this up.
“Mrs. Claire Marsh?” I asked pleasantly.
“Yes,” she hesitated just a little; probably afraid I was a solicitor.
“My name is Sally Nimitz, Mrs. Marsh,” I plunged ahead, “we have never met, but I am from Hanley, Indiana, and I was a neighbor of Amelia Marsh. Please forgive me for intruding like this. You spoke to Anne Carey the other night, and she kindly gave me your phone number.”
“I remember the call,” the lady said quietly. “How is it you are here in Richmond, Mrs. Nimitz? Are you a Mrs.?”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s right. I am a widow.” Not only was this true, it sounded so respectable. My heart was thumping. “I came here just to see you, Mrs. Marsh, if you will allow me to.”
There was a six second pause at the other end of the line. “I haven’t seen Amelia in many years. Why on earth would you come all this way to see me about her?” The voice was still very controlled and quiet.
“That’s rather a complicated issue, and probably better addressed in person,” I answered. “I realize I am a stranger to you, and you would be understandably hesitant to allow me to come to see you. Would you consider coming here to see me? I am staying at The Richmond Inn, and would gladly send a taxi for you. We can meet each other in the lobby or the coffee shop.”
There was a longer pause. It was hard to keep silent, but it seemed prudent. Finally she replied. “You are alone, then?”
“Yes.”
A few more seconds. “My niece will be here later this afternoon. I see no reason why you shouldn’t come here then. I admit I am curious as to why you have made this journey. I hope this isn’t a mistake.”
“Mrs. Marsh,” I said earnestly, “I am a forty-nine-year-old widow, a registered nurse, and a grandmother. My purpose in coming here is totally honorable.”
Did I detect a little chuckle? “Alright, Mrs. Nimitz. I will take a chance. Do you know where I live, and how to get here?”
We settled that, and agreed on a time for our meeting, three-thirty. Hanging up the phone I did a gleeful little jig around the bed. “Claire Marsh,” I chortled. “You have some of the answers we’re looking for, I just know it!”
So housekeeping could get into my room I left shortly after that, browsing through a historical section of the city within walking distance. I bought a ticket to a city museum and spent an interesting two hours learning some of the city’s Civil War history. On the way back to the hotel I stopped for coffee and a croissant, munching them as I considered what to wear for the appointment. A skirt seemed in order, and I had brought two. After changing, applying some makeup and taking a little care with my hair, it was almost time to leave. Looking over the directions to Claire Marsh’s residence twenty minutes seemed about the right amount of time to give myself to get there. It wouldn’t do to be too early, or more than five minutes late, but I could always park the car a short distance away from the house and wait if I arrived ahead of time.
The rush hour traffic was just beginning and I got ahead of most of it. After missing just one turn and having to back track, I pulled my dark blue rental into an empty parking place almost directly in front of the address on my paper. Just three minutes to spare. Taking a deep breath and saying a little prayer, I walked up to the house to conduct my second interview in regards to the background of Amelia Marsh.
The peak of the fall brilliance was gone and the ground was heavy with fallen leaves. The house was well kept, smaller than most of the others on the street, the siding painted a slate blue, the shutters beige. The small porch at the entrance was trimmed in beige to match the shutters, and there were several brightly colored flowerpots standing as sentinels by the entryway. Some of them were empty; two had lush ferns still thriving in them. I climbed the few steps to stand on the porch and ring the doorbell.
Immediately a small dog began to bark, or rather to yip. I rolled my eyes but had them properly back in my head when the front door opened. The young woman standing there assessed me as I did her, both of us doing so with pleasant expressions on our faces. She saw a slim middle aged woman of average height with short smooth hair, dressed in a fall outfit of chocolate brown and green, a leather bag on her shoulder. I saw a tall, stately blonde of about twenty-five, in well fitting jeans and a white sweater. She scooped up the dog as she had answered the door, a tiny white poodle. The canine stopped barking as soon as she did so.
“Mrs. Nimitz?” she asked perfunctorily. When I said I was she waved me in and led the way to the sitting room on the left side of the hall, where the object of my visit was sitting quietly in a plush dark red upholstered chair by the front window. She had watched me park my car and walk up to ring the doorbell, but I had not spotted her through the sheer curtains.
I walked up to the person in the chair and held out my hand. “How do you do, Mrs. Marsh? I am Sally Nimitz.”
She accepted my hand with a veined one of her own, invited me to sit down where I chose in the tastefully decorated room, and introduced me to the younger woman, “My great niece, Olivia.”
Olivia excused herself, but left the door to the sitting room open. I chose to sit in the most obvious place, on the other side of the front window in the chair that matched the one my hostess was sitting in. It was very comfortable. We were separated by a dark mahogany tea table adorned only with a lacy cover and a crystal candy dish. As I thanked Claire Marsh for seeing me, I looked around the room and complimented her on it. Her taste ran to space rather than clutter, as did my own, and she, or someone, had a flair for decorating. There was an elegance there, but comfort, too.
“I expect it is rather warm in here,” she said courteously. “I seem to need more heat as I get older. Please make yourself comfortable.”
I removed my jacket and draped it over the back of my chair. Then I turned my entire attention to the lady I had come hundreds of miles to see. Decades had gone by since the photographs Elaine Barclay showed me were taken, but she closely matched the description I had built up in my mind. She had a good hairdresser. Her hair was still blond, slightly curly, and well cut to flatter. The lined face was pleasant to look at, and her brown eyes were keen. Her hands and neck showed her years more than anything else, both lined and weathered. One ring adorned each hand, both yellow gold with diamonds, neither one of them ostentatious. She wore brown slacks, a bulky gold sweater, and hose under her brown flats.
She’s more fashion conscious than Amelia was, I thought, remembering my neighbor’s charming habit of mixing old and new, but she’s just as sharp, although maybe not as personable. Behind the charm one sensed a touch of steel.
I was about to begin, but Mrs. Marsh took the lead.
“Now,” she said in her slightly quavering contralto, “what can I help you with?”
“Amelia Marsh was murdered,” I said evenly, “several weeks ago now, in September. She was my next-door neighbor, and the day she died, a Wednesday, we were supposed to meet at her home. She didn’t say why she wanted to see me. As it turned out, by the time of our appointment she was already dead. Later that afternoon the manager of the housing unit and I found her body in the kitchen. So far no one has been arrested for that crime.”
I paused to see how this Mrs. Marsh was processing all this information. She already knew her former sister-in-law was killed. I was laying it all out again, with no idea what the lady’s initial response was when Miss Carey told her, what memories were stirred up by the news, and no clear picture what the relationship had been between Amelia and Claire Marsh. In spite of the many times I had envisioned this interview, now that it was taking place I was being extemporaneous.
“Go on,” the lady said quietly, her clear eyes looking directly into my own.
So I did. I told her about the last four years of Amelia’s life while she lived in Hanley, and my own relationship with her. I related Amelia’s reticence about speaking of her past, even with close friends, and continued on to describe the manner of her death, her funeral, and even included the afternoon with the lawyers at Amelia’s home. Finally, I told her about my trip to Texas and the meeting with June and Eric Fisk’s daughter.
“That Wednesday Amelia allowed someone to walk into her house, and that someone killed her,” I concluded. “I am convinced she knew who that person was, and there is no one in Hanley who had any reason to want her dead. You might think it very presumptuous of me and of my friends, but we have become committed to discovering more about the past that she was so evasive about, hoping we can find out who took her life.”
Claire Marsh listened intently and never interrupted. As I finished and before she said a word Olivia appeared. She leaned lazily against the door jam and caught her aunt’s eye.
“It’s past four, “she said. “Can I get you a tea or coffee?”
“Of course,” my hostess replied. This was obviously a daily routine. “Tea for me today, I think, Livy, and sugar cookies. Will you join me, Mrs. Nimitz? We have coffee if you prefer.”
Mrs. Nimitz would; tea for me also, and a small glass of water if it wasn’t too much trouble. We were all so polite it could have been absurd, but somehow it wasn’t. Such protocol seemed very in place here. Olivia gave me a small grin, as though she knew what I was thinking. It was a safe guess Olivia outside of this realm could be a very different person.
We didn’t continue the interview until the tea arrived. Meanwhile, in response to a compliment I made about Olivia, Claire surprised me and told me a little about her current situation. Olivia was her sister’s granddaughter, staying in Richmond to do some graduate studies, and getting room and board in exchange for being a part time companion to an elderly lady who shouldn’t live alone. Claire’s daughter and son-in-law lived in Chicago but they were moving back to Virginia in July. Rosamond’s husband, Arlin, was retiring. [So much for Ross Barclay’s memory about Mr. Reed’s first name, I thought in amusement.]
“I’ve invited them to come and live with me,” my hostess shared. “They haven’t given me a definite answer yet, but I think they will. This house will be theirs someday, and we’ve always gotten along well.”
“Those are family photographs?” I motioned toward the pictures on the mantle. “May I?”
“Of course.” Claire seemed pleased by my interest. Family is usually a common denominator.
I got up and walked over to the fireplace to look at them. The large framed portrait on the far left was Rosamond and Arlin Reed, taken on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. The still handsome couple was dressed in formal attire. If the way he was looking down at her was genuine, it was still a love match. Mrs. Marsh supplied a few facts as I studied the photographs. The Reeds had no children.
In the middle was a black and white studio portrait wedding picture. The very handsome groom and a petite brunette with a beautiful smile had been married some time ago. The hairstyles gave them away. Here was the boy Elaine Barclay had a crush on and whose name she could no longer remember. It was Steven. The last photograph was an informal shot, and the most recent. It featured the three grandchildren Steven had procreated, two boys and a girl. It had been taken on the occasion of the graduation of the oldest from college in Sacramento. All of Stephen’s family lived in California, Claire said sadly.
I looked with interest at these healthy, handsome young people. These were the descendants of Leonard and Arthur Marsh. Did they know anything these men? Did Rosamond know who her father was?
Olivia must have had the tea steeping, because she returned in only a few minutes with a tray bearing the pot, cups, cream, sugar, and a plate of the cookies. Oh, yes, and a small glass of ice water. It would have been disappointing to be served in ordinary mugs. Not to worry. We used an English bone china tea service, the pattern lilac primroses and dark green leaves.
Olivia set the tea service down on the table between us, removed the candy dish, and excused herself. Her aunt poured the tea and I waited.
As we sipped the elderly lady returned to the reason for my visit. The interlude had given her some time to consider what to tell me.
“Amelia and I had not spoken to each other since Leonard’s death,” she said levelly. “She did not tell me when she left her home in New Jersey. Of course that tells you we were no longer close, no longer even friends. But June’s daughter might not have known that.”
I volunteered that she hadn’t. “Did June know?” I asked.
“Oh I think so,” Claire Marsh smiled. “There was little June didn’t know. It’s a shame she’s gone. She could have told you what you want to know.”
“And,” I hesitated, “you can’t?”
“I doubt it,” she replied. “Neither Leonard or his wife confided in me about their marriage or her past.”
I considered this. “Would you be willing to tell me about your relationship with Leonard Marsh?” I ventured.
She smiled. “I have been considering that since you called me this morning. Well, Mrs. Nimitz, I don’t see what harm it can do now, and it is rare to have the opportunity to share the past.”
So we sipped tea, nibbled on her cookies, and Claire talked. One of four daughters raised in an affluent New York family, she came to Washington to visit a friend and met Leonard Marsh at a party. As she remembered it, he was there as an unofficial bodyguard to an important diplomat who was attending. They were attracted to one another immediately, and began to meet when they could.
“I had plenty of boyfriends in New York,” Claire told me, a ring of pride in her tone, “but Leonard was not only handsome, but older, and different. I was only nineteen and I was crazy about him.”
But it seemed two things got in the way of their romance. First, Claire’s parents found out about Leonard, and were not too happy about their teen-aged daughter’s relationship. Second, Leonard was called to Europe. Claire went home, attended business school, and waited two years before returning to Washington. Her father had connections there, and when his headstrong daughter showed no inclination to marry one of the young men he approved of, he helped her get a job in a prestigious law office in the nation’s capitol. Apparently it didn’t occur to him she would still remember her former flame.
But through the New York cousin Claire and Amelia had secretly managed to keep in touch. Several weeks after starting her new job, Leonard was back and the two took up where they left off.
For two years their romance continued, albeit, the lady admitted, sometimes it was stormy. Leonard was fond of her, but showed no inclination to settle down. She met his younger brother, Arthur, who would escort her around when his brother had to break a date suddenly. Arthur was stationed in New Jersey, an up and coming naval cadet.
“Arthur was wonderful, but I already loved Len,” Claire admitted. “I was getting tired of waiting, though, so I thought I could move Len along a bit.” She sighed and moved her gaze from me to look out the window. “So, we became lovers. But my little plan rather backfired on me. Four weeks later I suspected I was pregnant, and Len was somewhere in Eastern Europe, not due back for months.”
I kept my face impassive, not admitting I already knew about Rosamond’s paternity.
“Society was very different then. My parents would have been devastated and my life would essentially have been ruined, my reputation gone. I didn’t even know what an abortion was, and probably couldn’t have gone through with it if I had.”
Now I helped her out. “So you married Arthur,” I said gently. “Did he know?”
”Oh yes. It was his idea.” She smiled again, in reminiscence. “He was a fine man. In retrospect he was probably the better of the two. I was becoming quite content with my life when I lost him, too. But you know about that. Elaine told you.” I nodded.
“Mrs. Marsh,” I put my teacup down, “what caused the division between yourself and Amelia?”
She looked surprised. “Oh, I guess you wouldn’t know that.” She took another sip of her own tea. “Amelia didn’t know about my affair with Len and that Rosamond was his daughter. He never told her, not until a few years before he died, when he decided to make Rose a beneficiary in his will.”
I digested this. “She didn’t take it very well?”
“No. I knew Amelia pretty well by then. We visited in New Jersey every year. She thought it was because my children were the only family Leonard had, which was true, but I did want Rose to know her father, even if she thought of him as an uncle. But Amelia felt deceived, you see. There was a row, and I was there. She said if only she had been told. ‘I shared everything with you,’ she told him, ‘and you kept this from me.’”
“She didn’t think there was anything still between you and her husband?”
“Oh no,” the reply was certain. “And there wasn’t. I was a divorcee as well as a widow by then, but there was nothing improper between us. My love for him died when Arthur did, for some reason. I’m sure Amelia never thought that. It was the deception, you see, and perhaps it was worse because there had never been any children for them.”
I thought about that for a moment. “You don’t think Amelia ever conceived?” I asked.
She said slowly, “Well, she might have had a miscarriage, I suppose. There were a dozen years after they first married when I saw very little of them. If she did, it was never mentioned.”
After considering this information I asked, “Mrs. Marsh, what if I told you I know Amelia had a child, at least one. The coroner and the police determined that.”
“Well,” she raised her eyebrows in surprise. “She was my age, Amelia was, and about thirty when she married Leonard. Perhaps she was married before.”
“Yes,” I agreed quietly, “that’s possible.”
We had a second cup of tea, I ate another cookie, very tasty, and with a spark of humor my hostess commented that if she had been the murder victim after Leonard changed his will, we could have considered Amelia the culprit. As it was, she could not see how I was any closer to the solution to my problem. She had me there. I asked if she knew of anyone else I could talk to about Leonard and Amelia, and also if she remembered what their New Jersey address had been.
She thought about it. Perhaps she was deciding if she had revealed enough information for one day to a total stranger. But in the end she rose from her chair, asked me to excuse her for a moment, and left the room. When standing erect Claire Marsh had the posture of someone suffering from mild osteoporosis. There was a cane propped against the wall next to her chair, but she left it there and her gait was steady. While she left me alone, I wondered if Rosamond was told who her real father was when she received her legacy. How could her mother explain it without telling her, and Stephen as well, so he would not feel slighted? But those were questions I didn’t need the answer to, they were just the result of my curiosity, and it was unlikely I would ever know. There were still plenty of other things I did need answers to. Now it was clear why Amelia ended her relationship with her sister-in-law. She believed Claire and Leonard kept a secret they should have shared with her, especially Leonard. Was her reaction a little overboard?
Claire returned wi