Indiana was an hour behind time wise so the phone calls could wait a while longer. With only a muffin and two cookies for sustenance since breakfast, I decided a decent dinner was in order, but not quite yet. As I drew near a city park I pulled over. The boots I was wearing were quite comfortable. It was time for a walk, a thinking walk.
Three hours later, well fed on a chicken Alfredo dinner, I made myself comfortable on the bed and started the calls. Everyone answered; they were all waiting for me. By nine-thirty my voice and the ear pushed against the telephone receiver were both tired.
My first call was to Anne Carey whose main comment was, “Oh very good, dear, very good! What should you do next do you think?” So I told her. She was admonished for being sneaky, but I thanked her for the card and the extra cash. “Not nearly enough, I’m sure,” was her reply, “especially now.” After reassurances I was financially solvent, she allowed me to go on to my next contact.
That was George. “Nothing dangerous here, George,” I remarked cheerfully after he answered the phone. “Just a late afternoon tea party.” Then I elaborated. He also complimented me on my ability to make such prompt contact, and remarked that perhaps I had missed my calling and should have been a news reporter, to which I replied if I had been, the elderly lady would never had seen me. “What do you think?”
He agreed with my impression, that there was something important involved in Amelia’s response to the discovery of Rosamond’s paternity.
“That lady definitely had secrets,” he voiced. “If you’re right and the answer to who killed her is her past, you’ll have to keep digging.”
I asked him how the dog and cat were getting along. Better all the time, he said.
“And thank you for the financial assistance.”
“No problem.”
He also wanted to know what my plans were, and had no criticism.
I moved on to Everett and Judy. Joel was about to climb into the bathtub so we had some over the line hugs and kisses first.
“I want to hear!” I heard Judy protest, as Ev scooped up the phone from his son and suggested Judy help with the bath. He promised a verbatim report, and told me to start talking. When I finished, he was as good as his word, filling Judy in completely while I waited.
“What now, Mom?”
“What? Don’t you have some advice for me?” I teased.
“Only to keep looking,” he said in encouragement.
I hesitated before placing the call to Janelle. She was not necessarily expecting to hear from me this soon. But in the end I spoke with her too, and our call was the longest. She had thought about all the information I had given her on our previous talk, and had some questions of her own. I answered them all honestly but did not elaborate.
“Honestly, Mom, a murder!” she said more than once.
“I told you that the other night,” I pointed out dryly.
“Yes, but, it didn’t sink in right away. I was really tired. Do you really think you’ll find out who did it?”
I sighed. “Honestly, honey, it’s a long shot. But I can tell you this, finding out about Amelia Marsh’s life has become a passion. It’s like the epitaph that needs to be printed on her tombstone.”
She didn’t say a word about how long it took me to inform her about the violent death of my neighbor, and my involvement. I had expected real rebuke. Her response told me she wasn’t concerned about my safety, so she didn’t think Amelia’s killer was a direct threat. Come to think of it, neither did I.
Janelle surprised me again by laughing. “Well, Mom, you seem to be enjoying yourself, and heaven knows you deserve to be doing that for a change. What next?”
She too, was informed. The next morning I would start for New Jersey, and probably after that, London.
It had been my intention to leave the next morning, but upon further consideration I changed my plans. In the morning I called the front desk, asking if I could keep my room for one more night. No problem. It would take time to arrange an overseas flight. By the time my plans were finalized it could be after lunch, not a good time to leave and head north. Besides, when would I return to Richmond? When I had everything settled I would do the tourist thing again. Richmond was bound to have some more great museums or an antebellum house to tour.
I left Wednesday about nine, the day crisp and cool. It took me over six hours to reach my destination in southern New Jersey, and the trip was memorable. I made a vow to avoid the eastern highways, and especially the beltway for the rest of my life. It may have been a scenic drive but I dared not take my eyes off the road long enough to find out. The last twenty miles, on a picturesque local road to the country town of Bertha, I breathed easy at last. My plan was to find the address Claire Marsh had given me before looking for lodging for the night. There should be no problem finding accommodations in early November, with time enough left before sundown to do that.
The retirement home of the Marshes had been roughly twenty-five miles from the seaboard, and about forty miles from Atlantic City. After stopping twice to inquire, I found the street and the residence. I wanted to linger, to get out and mosey down the street on foot to get a closer look, and to find the house of the neighbors who might be able to help me. But it was after four o’clock. It would be more prudent to come back in the morning. I had plenty of time. My flight to London did not leave until Sunday.
That decision turned out to be the right one. It took awhile to find my way back to an area zoned for lodging. The first inn I tried was attractive but shabby, and the clerk behind the counter, with his scruffy beard and bleary eyes, did nothing to reassure me. The second hotel had no vacancy because of an on site seminar, but as with goldilocks, my third choice was just right. The elderly gentleman behind the counter grinned when I asked if there might be a discount for committing to a three-night stay. He gave me ten per cent off the original rate quoted for one night. The spotless and rustic surroundings made it appealing, but there was another factor urging me to search no more. The weather was turning. The wind had come up suddenly, the sky was clouding up and nightfall was coming in a little early. Rain looked eminent. The small dining room to the right of the lobby was just opening for dinner and my stomach was growling. I smiled back at the clerk and pulled out my credit card.
The Shadow Lake Inn was not a bad home for my sojourn in New Jersey. There was a small pond behind the establishment, which hardly qualified for a lake at all, but it was nicely shadowed every afternoon, as I could verify from my second story window. My accommodations were not as modern as they had been in Richmond, but made up for that with the canopied bed, the flowered cotton curtains that matched the bedspread, and the large braided rug covering the floor between my bed and the bathroom. The bathtub was old and slightly stained but huge, and there was plenty of hot water and two over sized bath towels. A sign in the lobby said the business had been established in 1943. By my second day there I was almost sure every modern convenience had been added grudgingly, only to keep enough guests coming to stay afloat. But the whole effect was charming.
That Wednesday night when I walked into the dining room three of the eight tables were already taken. Being alone I was escorted to the smallest table. The place was not much bigger than the dining room of the bed and breakfast I had stayed in on my way home from Texas. Two people looked up and smiled, and of course I smiled back and said hello. This was unexpected in the east. I thought people would be more aloof. That evening the book I brought along didn’t get much attention.
One of the other three parties was a young couple, perhaps in their late twenties. The woman was plump, pretty, and very out going. She didn’t hesitate to ask me if I was traveling by myself, and that started a conversation. Her husband’s demeanor implied he was used to this. He added a comment now and then, and leaned back patiently in his chair to listen to the dialogue and to eat his meal.
Party number two was a couple about my own age, accompanied by an elderly woman who turned out to be the mother of the gentleman. They were soon drawn in, having a relative who lived in Indianapolis. Party number three, two businessmen, refused to participate. They huddled over their food, drink, and private affairs at the table closest to the entrance to the lobby. Their isolation policy did not dampen the festive air begun by the natural friendliness of the young wife, fueled by the close proximity of our tables, and the encouragement of the waitress. Shortly after my arrival another party of three completed our group, a couple in their forties with a gangly teenage son.
“How nice!” the server said, looking around as she took our orders. “A cool stormy night and here you are, warm and cozy in here getting to know each other!”
So we chatted amicably if superficially. We exchanged travel stories, none of them extraordinary. What brought me to New Jersey? I was looking into some past history. Maureen, as the talkative young woman’s name turned out to be, had a natural curiosity and a dry wit. She flashed her large dark eyes at one of the older men in mild flirtation and he unconsciously preened. His wife smothered a grin, a wise woman, I thought. Maureen’s husband didn’t act threatened. His standing seemed solid.
It was a pleasant way to spend an hour and a half. I excused myself after that. The businessmen were already gone, so was the teenager. No one else seemed to be in any hurry to leave. It did not escape my notice that the elderly woman had taken three glasses of wine, and was beginning to nod in her chair. She was no lightweight, and I hoped she would make it to her room on her own power. Her son did not look up to the task.
I had eaten a salad entrée, not wanting to be stuffed before bed, and there would be no opportunity to walk it off. I wandered around the lobby looking at the photographs of the hotel as it had been in bygone years before taking my book up to the bathtub. The heat wafted up heartily from the baseboard system. I fell asleep to the beat of rain, turning to sleet, pounding against the window.
The rain persisted into Thursday. I was glad I knew my way back to my destination. Once again it wouldn’t do to be too early. I had decided to take my chances by just showing up on the doorstep of the former neighbors of the Marshes. I lounged in the bed after waking, and took my time getting ready. It was after nine by the time I entered the dining room for breakfast. Most of the tables were occupied, but not with the familiar faces from dinner the night before. Apparently they had already flown. In fact, as the morning waitress told me, their little restaurant, which served only breakfast and dinner, was popular for the former meal with the locals. Occasionally the guests would partake, but they provided only a fraction of the a.m. business, perhaps because the reasonable room rates did not include a free breakfast.
“So, what’s the draw?” I asked her.
“The pancakes, and the homemade muffins,” she replied enthusiastically. “Today we have blackberry, and they are delicious. Better say so if you want one, though. Only two left.”
So I ordered a muffin, scrambled eggs and coffee, passing on the pancakes, although it was tempting.
This time I buried my face contentedly in my book, eating without interruption. While finishing a second cup of well-brewed coffee, three elderly gentlemen arrived. They took the biggest table. Listening to their chatter it was obvious they were ten o’clock regular coffee patrons. One of them noticed me noticing them and winked at me.
“You from around here young lady?” he boomed. His voice was clear and loud. I answered that I was just passing through.
“Where ya from?”
I told him. Everyone in the room heard me; they couldn’t help it. I was glad my mission wasn’t a clandestine one.
“Traveling by yourself?” he continued, undeterred.
I admitted it. He shook his head in disapproval. His two companions leaned back in their chairs and gazed at me in their own mild curiosity.
“Many ladies travel alone nowadays, sir,” I rejoined.
“Maybe so,” he allowed, “but that don’t make it safe. Plenty of crazies out there. There was a time around here you could sleep with your doors unlocked and not think a thing of it. Not now.”
I promised to lock my car doors, and make sure the door to my room was always locked and got up to leave. Then I had a thought.
“Have you all lived around here a long time?” I asked the three collectively.
Two of them had lived locally most of their lives. It was a long shot, but why not. Had they ever known two gentlemen, one named Eric Fisk, the other Leonard Marsh. No surprise. They hadn’t.
“What about a family named Wheddle?” Here I got a response, but not from the two long timers. It was the third man, tall, stooped, and almost bald, who came through.
“There’s a family lives down my street by that name,” he said. “Don’t know ‘em very well. We’ve been there about five years, and the older lady takes a walk every morning, rain or shine. She did today.”
“Would that be on Joiner Avenue?” I asked timidly, hardly daring to hope it would be.
But it was, so the men were told I was looking for some contacts of an old friend from days gone by. They chorused a good bye and a good luck, and the source of my information added as I left the dining room, “There’s a bunch of kids in that house. I think she has a son or daughter and their family living with her.”
It took over twenty minutes to return to Joiner Avenue, thanks to morning traffic, slow stoplights, and the rain. I had the foresight to pack a lined hooded raincoat. It hadn’t occurred to me to pack an umbrella. The last mile was down quiet, residential streets, with little traffic so I could cruise very slowly. There was evidence the neighborhood had deteriorated since Amelia and Leonard’s day, from an affluent middle class neighborhood to a lower middle class one. Some of the larger houses had been converted into multi family dwellings. Between some manicured, well kept homes, there were others now needing upkeep. I recognized the signs of homes lived in by the elderly who were finding it difficult to keep up their landscaping, and either could not or did not want to pay someone else to do it.
There were many cars parked on the street because a lot of the old homes had one-car garages or no garage at all. But I found an empty spot in front of the house I had the address for, and pulled into it.
I left the motor running because of the heater and looked out of the passenger window at the house Amelia Marsh had lived in for many years, most of them with Leonard. The opportunity to get any closer never presented itself, but I was strangely moved, just sitting there, looking at that house. It was white-framed with dark green shutters, a large porch, and two huge maple trees in the front yard. It was nice to see this was one of the better kept residences in this area. If the items sitting on the front porch were a good indication, a family with young children lived there now, and I thought Amelia would have liked that. She had told me a realtor sold the house for her and she had no dealings with the buyers. It was possible the house had changed hands again. Remembering how Amelia loved her gardening, I hoped someone was keeping up the backyard and enjoying it as she had.
The rain had tapered to a drizzle. Presently I glanced at my watch. It was going on eleven o’clock, certainly a respectable hour for callers, so I turned the engine off and pulled up the hood on my coat. The house directly across the street was not kept up nearly so well.
Approaching, I could hear the radio blasting through the closed door. Getting closer still I could hear a small child crying and a woman’s voice yelling for him or her to shut up. The idea that anyone living here could have had a close friendship with the Marshes seemed ludicrous, but I was only a knock away from finding out. The doorbell didn’t work. To be heard over all of the racket I knocked very loudly.
The child stopped crying and said clearly, “Mama, somebody’s at the door.”
Mama said, “What?” the child repeated the information, and the radio went down a few decibels. I validated what the little one said and knocked again. She peeked through the window to my right and looked at me. Rather than appear confrontational I pretended not to see her.
In her place I would have hesitated to answer. In my attire of boots and a raincoat with a handbag dangling from my shoulder I could easily have been selling something she didn’t want. Maybe she thought any solicitor determined enough to work in the inclement weather deserved a chance. Whatever she thought, she answered the door.
“Good morning,” I said courteously, facing a thirty something female in faded jeans and a worn flannel shirt, her dirty blond hair pulled back in an untidy ponytail. Standing slightly behind her was the child, a boy, three or four years old. His face was smeared with jelly and, I am not making this up, he had one finger up a nostril as he stared at me. “I apologize for disturbing you. My name is Sally Nimitz, and I understand there are old neighbors and friends of the Marshes who still live here. Marsh is the name of the family who used to live across the street? I knew Mrs. Amelia Marsh.”
She thought for a second and nodded. “Oh yeah. They lived right across the street until a few years ago. He died, and she moved a way after a while.”
Now I nodded. “She moved to a small town in Indiana, where we were neighbors. I was hoping to talk to someone who knew them pretty well.”
The woman considered just a second longer, then motioned for me to come in. I thanked her and stepped into the foyer. The house was not dirty, but cluttered and messy. As with the outside, everything needed a face-lift.
“Ma!” the woman yelled up the stairs. The child continued to stare at me, and since he had removed the finger from his nose I smiled back.
The woman upstairs must have heard the knock and her daughter allowing me entrance, because she appeared almost instantaneously.
“Here’s someone from Indiana who knows Mrs. Marsh, you know, the old lady who used to live across the street. You want to talk to her?”
“How do you do? Am I correct, your last name is Wheddle?” I called up the stairs. “My name is Sally Nimitz, and I have come from Indiana to speak with you, if I could.”
This lady looked about sixty, short and plump with gray hair cut very short, and glasses perched on the end of a nice nose, not too long. That was about as much as I could tell, with me standing on the bottom of the staircase looking up at her as she looked down at me from the landing. I did notice the dark blue slacks she wore, blue slippers, and the light blue sweatshirt that was embroidered with a patchwork pattern of some sort.
She told me to come up. I had wiped my boots very thoroughly on the mat at the entrance, but I asked the daughter if she wanted me to remove them.
“Heck, no.” she replied. “I wish I could get the kids to wipe their feet at all. Go on up.”
So I did. Mrs. Wheddle waited for me at the top. She invited me into her bedroom to talk. It was apparent this was her sanctuary away from the bustle of her family. A knitting project, a blanket done in cream and shades of green, was lying on top of the bed. Yarn and squares of material cut for quilting were piled on a table in a corner. A sewing machine stood next to it. She was in no hurry for me to get down to business. I complimented her on the blanket and we chatted awhile about her projects. She was working on Christmas presents. Once again I took a seat in a chair by the window. The room was large enough for two chairs and a small table in addition to the other furniture, but it was tight. This window overlooked the backyard with no view of the front entrance. Mrs. Wheddle told me first name was Grace, that Mr. Wheddle had passed away a year after Amelia left, and his widow found out she hated living alone. She invited one of her daughters and family to come and live with her. I never knew exactly how many people that was, but for sure there were more children at school.
“They drive me a little crazy sometimes,” Grace admitted, “but it’s better than being by myself, and I haven’t found another man I want to marry.”
I thought it was nice living alone and being able to enjoy it, but I didn’t say so. My mother never adjusted to it either, and enjoying solitude seemed to be a gift for some people. Instead I asked her if she minded talking about the Marshes.
Apparently not. Predictably she wanted to know my connection with Amelia, and for the first time I spoke with someone about Amelia Marsh and did not tell them how she died. I sensed it would have upset this woman in a way that would hamper my investigation and do her no good. It was not too difficult to tell her everything Claire Marsh and the Barclays had been told, including the fact she was now deceased, omitting only the manner of her death.
Grace Wheddle seemed genuinely sorry to hear of her former neighbor’s demise, but not surprised. She accepted the assumption given that Amelia died of natural causes. She was happy to tell me about their relationship, and never questioned my reason for traveling so far to learn more about the Marshes. I told her I was trying to locate Amelia’s family in England, that she had been curiously silent on her past, and I was trying to fill in missing pieces. All of this was true.
Picking up her knitting, my companion absently began the knits and purls, pursing her lips, and thinking about the past. I left her to that for a moment before asking, “Did you ever hear from Mrs. Marsh after she moved away?”
“No,” she replied promptly, “not even a Christmas card, and we were neighbors here for over twenty years. But she told me not to expect it.”
“She did?” I said, surprised.
Grace nodded. “Mely, all of her friends here called her Mely, came over to see David and me the day before she left. We hadn’t seen so much of her after her husband died, but we were still on good terms.” Here Grace regressed a bit, and explained how the two couples had become friendly in the first place. It was interesting, as David had been the son of a ship builder and Leonard Marsh loved sailing, but not very pertinent to what I wanted to know. A few minutes later I managed to steer Grace’s explanation back on track.
“Anyway,” she continued, “Mely stayed for a while that day. She told us where she was going, and thanked us for being such good neighbors. I remember she hugged me before she left, the first time she ever did that. She wasn’t the touchy type, you know.”
I nodded that I did know.
”Being English, I suppose,” Grace surmised. “Anyway,” she began again, “she hugged me, and gave me a present.” Here there was a pause as I was supposed to ask what the present was. I obliged.
“It was a soup tureen, English bone china, such a pretty thing.” My hostess sighed and added sadly, “My grandson dropped it last Thanksgiving.”
“Well,” I said, trying to be comforting, “Amelia won’t ever know that now.”
“No,” agreed Grace, “and she never would have. She said, and I remember it so well, that another chapter of her life was ending, and once you closed a part of your life it was no good going back. She said she would never forget us, but that we probably wouldn’t hear from her again.”
“Didn’t that strike you as rather odd, Mrs. Wheddle?” I ventured. “Lots of people move on in their lives without breaking all ties.”
“Of course it did,” she said tartly, glancing at me over the top of her glasses, “that’s why I didn’t forget it. But she could be different in her ways. I thought it was just being foreign, you know, and then getting older, too. She must have been in her seventies when she left here.”
“She was,” I confirmed, and then pursued, “did she ever talk about her life in England, or her family?”
Grace considered this. “Usually we talked about current things, you know, like our children, or David taking Mr. Marsh out to a good fishing spot. Sometimes she would tell a story about her childhood in England or her travels overseas.”
I groaned inwardly. There was nothing new here. “She never talked about a sister or brothers?” I persisted.
“She had a sister, I remember, and I even think her name was Mary. Mely never mentioned if they kept in touch. She never came here to visit.”
“Do you think the sister might have died?” I continued my query. Now I had a name for the sister, which was something.
There was another moment of contemplation. “No, I think that at least while Mely lived here, her sister was alive. I can’t tell you exactly why I know that, but I do. Once when my daughter Sandra, she’s the oldest, had a birthday, Mely said her niece had the same name, ‘my sister Mary’s girl,’ is how she put it. Then I asked her if she had ever seen her,” here Grace paused, putting down her knitting needles, and getting a bit animated as her memory obliged her, “and she said no, not for many years. I asked her then, point blank, why didn’t she go back to England to visit.”
“Did you?” I was perking up a little myself. “What did she say?”
The brown eyes behind the glasses looked at me reflectively. “This is the first time I’ve realized it. She said the same thing, the same words she said the last time we saw her.”
“That there was no going back,” I repeated slowly.
“Yes,” Grace confirmed quietly. “I remember thinking there must have been some kind of quarrel or disagreement that ended badly. But I didn’t ask. I could tell she didn’t want to talk about it.”
I groped mentally for anything at all that might give me more information. “Then, Mrs. Marsh never heard from her sister, or anyone else in England, as far as you know,” I summed up slowly.
“That’s about it,” admitted Mrs. Wheddle. “At least as far as I know. Sorry I can’t give you more. Are you looking for beneficiaries to her will?”
“Not exactly,” I admitted. “But if there is any family left I would like to find them.”
“There is one other person you might talk to,” Grace suggested. “Mely was active in the local beautification club, you know, planting trees, flowers for the park, that sort of thing. The other day I saw a lady who was another member. Her name is Margaret Beeson, Mrs. John Beeson.”
She put the knitting aside, walked over to her bedside table, and pulled a telephone book from the drawer. “I think they’re listed, he’s a dentist, retired now. Yes, here it is.”
Helpfully she read the number out loud for me to copy down.
I took my leave of Grace Wheddle shortly after, stepping carefully over a toy truck that had found its way to the bottom of the stairs while I was visiting in her room. No one seemed to notice my departure. The radio was again playing loudly, Grace said goodbye to me upstairs before heading for the bathroom, and her family downstairs were nowhere in sight. I let myself out.
I sat in the car and thought about what my next step should be. I could go back to my hotel room and try to call my next contact, the Beesons. But it was almost noon and very likely Margaret Beeson would be out somewhere. Older people tended to stay at home on cold nights: I would wait until evening.
There was some shopping to be done before catching my plane on Sunday, and this was a good afternoon to be at the mall.