The funeral service was held in the chapel at the funeral home. It was a pleasant room, designed to be tasteful but not gloomy, with stained glass windows in mauve, light blues, and lavender. The benches were light oak in color and padded for comfort, and the walls a creamy white. There was a cross behind the podium and drapes of a deep purple as background behind it. The room was small, but comfortably held the forty or fifty people who attended. Not a bad turnout, I thought, for an elderly lady who had lived in the community only a few years and had no known relatives.
Her casket was in a small alcove adjoining the chapel. It was closed, with a photograph on top next to an arrangement of daisies and marigolds, two of her favorite flowers. The photograph was recent and the way I would remember her, a small smile on her pleasant, lined face, her soft hair piled up in the pompadour style she usually wore, a pearl necklace the only adornment on a pink blouse. I wondered where the photograph had come from. I had never seen it before.
To my surprise, Barry attended, accompanied by a quiet brunette he introduced as his girlfriend, Theresa.
“I thought it was the right thing to do,” he explained rather shyly as we met at the front door and entered together. “Represent the housing unit, you know.” His usually loud clear voice was down a couple of decibels.
“Very thoughtful of you,” I said warmly. They invited me to sit with them and I accepted.
Most of the attendants were elderly, as expected, although not all. Miss Carey would tell me later most of the younger people were members of the church. One woman, a heavy blonde, had been Mrs. Marsh’s hairdresser. She would also mention, with deep disapproval, about five of those who came were there only because of morbid curiosity. They only knew about Amelia because of the publicity surrounding her death.
The service was about forty minutes. Reverend Southby presented the deceased as a woman who had made a positive impression upon all who had known her. He reminded everyone of the fragility of the flesh, and how all of us would cross life’s river one day.
“Amelia’s death was unexpected and terrible in that someone unknown took it from her. We must remember that God does know who that was, and He will not allow this act to go unpunished.”
Then the minister said something I had not been aware of.
“A few years ago, as most of you know, this dear lady began attending services at our church. She asked to see me a few weeks after she started coming. Amelia Marsh did not share with me any specific details of her past, but she did express deep regret for some things done as a young woman. She asked if there was indeed forgiveness for her and hope for her redemption. I had the privilege of being able to assure her of the words of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all who come to repentance, to Him, have that assurance.”
He paused and looked earnestly at the faces in front of him. “What a comfort to all of us, to know that Amelia’s life did not really end last Wednesday, but is only just beginning.”
There were many teary eyes in our little group. I heard a sob from the row in front of and across from me. It was the lady who had been speaking to Anne Carey after the morning church service. Her husband sat to her left, and a somber faced Miss Carey to the right.
After the pastor ended his eulogy a tall, thin, gentleman rose and sang “Blessed Assurance.” Later Miss Carey would again fill me in, explaining Mrs. Marsh had admired Mr. Polaski’s tenor voice when he sang solos in the choir. She had left instructions requesting him to sing for her memorial service and he had kindly obliged. He did have a nice voice.
When he was finished the tenor sat down again in his seat next to Mrs. Southby. The good pastor’s wife was not one of those wet eyed, I noticed, but I was not either. A lady I did not recognize stood up and announced there would be coffee and refreshments at the fellowship hall of the church for all of those who had come to show their last respects. She went on to introduce herself to those of us who did not know her. She was the president of the Hanley Soroptomist club, and she took a moment to describe the friend she had known and would miss.
Reverend Southby announced that following Mrs. Marsh’s wishes, her remains would be privately interred at her burial site. There would be no graveside service. He asked if anyone else cared to share before the service was ended.
Two individuals did. One elderly gentleman shared how “Miss Amelia” had come to visit his wife at home during her own last illness and been a comfort to both of them. Anne Carey rose and said she knew her friend would have been so pleased with the people who had come to say a final goodbye. She wanted to thank them all. Tears flowed down her pale cheeks and now they flowed down mine, too.
When we got up to leave I turned around and got a big surprise. Sitting in the very back of the room, in a gray sports jacket, was Detective David White.
Theresa and Barry said goodbye to me in the parking lot. They were not going for the refreshments. I thought about it for a moment as I turned the keys in my ignition, and decided not to go either. The last time I attended a funeral it was my husband Michaels. Over three hundred people had crowded the church that day. How vastly different that goodbye had been, and yet how much the same. It would be over an hour before the meeting at Mrs. Marsh’s house. I went back to my own home to wait.
For the church service and funeral I wore a beige pants suit with navy blue print blouse and navy blue pumps. Now I changed into jeans and a sweater, which seemed more appropriate for the task at hand. The weather was cooler today, with a brisk wind from the north. I opened my blinds to let the afternoon sun in. Its warmth felt good and I stood there in the sunshine.
Looking blandly out of the window, it was a couple of moments before I really noticed the Lincoln town car pulling into the drive in front of Mrs. Marsh’s garage. For the first time I remembered her car. She had driven a Buick Park Avenue. It was about twelve years old, and my guess was she had put less than twenty miles a week on it since moving to town. Just the sort of vehicle everyone looking for a used car hoped to find. Would a perspective buyer be put off if they knew the car belonged to a murder victim?
My mind was rambling, but my brain eventually processed the man in a suit who got out of the Lincoln and let himself into the Amelia’s house. Shortly after another late model sedan pulled up, and suited male number two walked purposefully up the steps and joined him. Both of them were carrying briefcases, and the first arrival also brought a brown paper bag. I wondered if they would start without the rest of us. The idea annoyed me.
Puttering about my own home and eating a snack occupied the time until ten minutes to four. I locked my front door, slowly sauntered down my entryway, and turned left. Miss Carey was walking up to the front entrance from the opposite direction. Across the street a resident of the condominium directly opposite paused on his lawn to take notice of the number of people who were arriving.
Miss Carey waved to him politely and he waved back to both of us. He and his wife were new to the neighborhood. I had not met them, but I politely acknowledged his wave with a nod of my head and a smile.
As if on cue Miss Carey and I turned our back to the neighbor and walked up to the front door together. Also as if on cue, as we walked up the steps, the door opened. The greeter smiled pleasantly and gestured us in, holding out his hand as he closed the door behind us.
“Miss Anne Carey, and Mrs. Sally Nimitz?” he asked. It was obviously just a formality and he had been informed whom to expect, but his voice was pleasant. He was the younger of the two men, his heavy body looking even heavier in a dark suit that was too big for him. The other man was tall, thin, and stern looking, his lips compressed together in a thin line. But when we confirmed our identities they both smiled politely and the older of the two did not look so forbidding. They introduced themselves as Mr. Harmon and Mr. Bedeman, respectively, from the firm of Bedeman and Bedeman in Springfield.
“We have consulted with the home office of The Hedges and with Mr. Ainsworth, the manager,” Mr. Harmon informed us, “and they have given us permission to ‘takeover,’ as it were, for the afternoon, so that we can completely settle the affairs of Mrs. Amelia Marsh.” He gave an apologetic little smile and added, “We have taken the liberty of making some coffee, as we may be here for a little while. Would either of you ladies like some before we get started? We still have a couple more people to wait for.”
Miss Carey declined but I accepted the offer. The apartment was quite cool. Mr. Harmon offered to get it for me, but I made my way into the kitchen as the rest of our party sat down in the living room. The lawyers had brought all the fixings, including paper cups, and the coffee looked pretty good. The coffee makers used the pot sitting on the counter top, which Mrs. Marsh herself had used only occasionally, but they refrained from going into the cupboard for cups. There was also a tin of sugar cookies.
I looked about as I poured, noticing the kitchen was spotless and peaceful. No spirit seemed to linger of the violence that had occurred here just a few days earlier.
Mr. Harmon, as the junior partner, seemed to be delegated to do all the footwork. As I returned to the living room and settled myself on the settee next to Miss Carey, he was opening the front door again. Pastor Southby stood on the step, and approaching right behind him was Detective White.
They were also offered coffee, which the detective accepted and the pastor declined. With their presence we were ready for business. Mr. Bedeman took over. He and his associate had arranged the seating so the six of us were all able to see each other. I did not recognize Mr. Harmon’s chair, and thought it must be from one of the bedrooms.
“Due to the unusual nature of this situation,” Mr. Bedeman said in a professional manner, “both Mr. Harmon and I have come here from Springfield to attend to this affair. However, as soon as a few fine points to Mrs. Marsh’s will have been clarified, I will excuse myself and leave the rest of you to attend to details. Mr. Harmon will see to it there are no misunderstandings.” He paused, and nodded toward the police officer. “Again, because of the cause of death, chief of police Chilinski contacted our office and asked that their detective on this case be allowed to attend this meeting. Of course we agreed.”
From Miss Carey’s explanation I had the impression my late afternoon would be spent going through my late neighbor’s photographs and dresser drawers. This was extraordinary. It seemed I was to be privy to the reading of the will, at the very least.
“Amelia Marsh always dealt with me concerning her legal affairs, and often consulted me about her financial affairs as well,” Mr. Bedeman went on, and there was a softening of his voice. I tried to remember if I had seen him at the funeral. “Although she was in very good health she had the wisdom to realize the importance of leaving clear instructions in the event of her demise.” He paused, then went on quietly,” We had a fine working relationship for about five years. Her will as it stands was made in January of this year.” Now he nodded toward Reverend Southby, who had been silent and poker faced since walking through the front door. “Reverend Southby and I have already conferred, as the church he pastors is the main beneficiary of Mrs. Marsh’s estate.”
No big surprise there. One could not help but wonder just how much there had been to leave.
“There are some small bequeaths and these individuals will be notified personally. What remains in the house, including her private vehicle, is to be sold at auction, and the proceeds, after fees, to be divided equally between three charities she designated.” He shifted a bit in his chair, and continued. “Our firm felt it appropriate to ask the Reverend Southby to select two or three individuals to go through her private effects and remove anything not appropriate for public auction. We ask that you give a list of these things to us, or rather to Mr. Harmon, so that we can verify the items are of a personal nature and again, Reverend Southby has agreed to take the responsibility of disposing of these things as he sees fit.”
Pastor Southby did not look too happy about these responsibilities. He confirmed my thoughts by clearing his throat and asking if he could have the floor. Counselor Bedeman nodded graciously.
“I have just spoken to Miss Carey,” he inclined his head toward that lady, “and she has agreed to be the major representative here today. I have only come to verify this, gentleman, as there was no time to make phone calls.”
Both of the lawyers looked deadpan. They must have learned to keep a straight face when surprised in the courtroom.
The good pastor continued apologetically, “My wife cannot be here this afternoon, and it does not seem right to me that a woman is not placed in charge of going through Mrs. Marsh’s belongings. Miss Carey is not blood related to the deceased but they were very close friends. I think her professional credentials also make her, and anyone else she deems worthy,” and here he smiled a bit in my direction, “far better qualified than I am for this task.”
Mr. Bedeman recovered nicely and agreed Mr. Southby had the right to place Miss Carey in place as his proxy. Having all of us as witnesses, Miss Carey was duly so placed. She said nothing, except a quiet “thank you.”
The ball being back in the lawyers’ court, we were told her more valuable pieces of jewelry had been in the safety deposit box with her will. We need not think they had been stolen. Not to worry, I thought, I wouldn’t have known the difference. I had never seen Mrs. Marsh wear any valuable jewelry, other than the pearls she was wearing in the photograph at the funeral, and her wedding rings. She favored costume jewelry to match her outfits. She usually wore earrings, clips because her ears weren’t pierced, and now I remembered there were no earrings when I knelt beside her body to check for signs of life. Perhaps she didn’t wear them that day because she had slacks on.
Finally it was Mr. Harmon’s turn to speak. He told us the nature of what would be considered very personal, and what was to be considered part of the estate for auction. He would list everything separately. I wondered how much Mrs. Marsh’s estate was paying these two to come out on a Sunday afternoon.
Detective White, still in sports coat and minus badge, now took his turn. He would only be an observer, he said, with the sole purpose of seeing if the police department had overlooked anything pertinent in the matter of the lady’s death.
“Mr. Bedeman,” he said courteously, “you informed me on Friday there were some papers of a personal nature in Mrs. Marsh’s safety deposit box. You felt I might want to look at these. This is the second reason I am here today.”
“There were, sir,” the older of the two lawyers replied, “and I am trusting everyone here to maintain the confidentiality of these documents. If you find anything that has a bearing on solving her murder, and that document is needed as evidence, it goes without saying a subpoena is in order.”
Officer White nodded his acknowledgment of the rules.
Mr. Southby stood up. If he were no longer needed he would take his leave. Miss Carey and myself said polite goodbyes and Mr. Bedeman walked him to the door. The two men exchanged words in voices too low to be overheard before the lawyer shut the door behind him and joined the rest of us, but during those moments Miss Carey whispered in my right ear, “Poor man. He’s off the hook now. His wife. I’ll explain more later.”
Just those few words explained a lot to me. The unfortunate pastor had been caught between a rock and a hard place, whatever the particulars.
After taking his seat again Mr. Bedeman nodded to Mr. Harmon, who produced a strong box from a dark plastic bag that had been sitting unobtrusively next to his chair. Mr. Harmon pulled a key out of his pocket and opened the box. It was done rather ritualistically. I found myself holding my breath.
The safety deposit box was large enough to hold standard sized paper without being folded. Mr. Bedeman reached into the box and removed three manila envelopes. They were all labeled but I was not close enough to read what they said. He put the first one aside but opened the second.
“The first envelope is another copy of her will,” he explained, “which we need not go through in any greater detail here. Officer White,” and he nodded in the law enforcement officer’s direction again, “has already seen the original. The third envelope contains copies of more important receipts and transactions, such as the purchase of her vehicle and proof of insurances.” He paused to pull the papers out of the envelope he had opened. “This one,” he continued, “has copies of her birth certificate, marriage certificate, and United States citizenship.” Again he paused, and this time he looked at Anne Carey. “Miss Carey,” he said, “as far as I knew Amelia Marsh had no living relatives. When I asked her point blank if there was anyone related to her she wanted named as power of attorney or executor, she said there was no one. Do you know any differently?”
Miss Carey replied that she did not. In their five-year association, Amelia had never indicated she had any living relatives. She always spoke of family in the past tense.
“The exception would be her late husband,” the elderly lady added. “Amelia spoke of him from time to time, as one would expect.”
“And she never referred to any relatives of her late husband?” the attorney pressed a little further.
“No, I don’t think she ever did.”
There was a momentary silence. Perhaps the others were thinking, as I was, there was an even greater sadness attached to this affair because there seemed to be no one from the past to carry on the legacy of Mrs. Marsh. All of us who had known her had liked her. We wanted a part of her to live on in someone else.
The attorney nodded gravely. “Pastor Southby said the same. We will now continue according to the instructions of the lady’s will, and in accordance with the law. There is no reason to do otherwise.”
While the counselors and the detective looked more closely at the contents of the second envelope, I wandered back to the kitchen for a refill on my coffee and this time Miss Carey followed me for some of the same.
“I usually prefer tea,” she said, as she allowed me to pour for her, “but I had two cups after the funeral and I am just a little chilled right now. Something else hot sounds good.”
“If the tea was not decaffeinated you may be up for awhile,” I warned her. “I think this is the real thing.”
“It was herbal,” she assured me as she took a sip and added some creamer. “The house looks as though she will come back through the door any moment, doesn’t it? The kitchen even has a faint scent of the cinnamon she favored.”
I totally agreed with her. Again I marveled there was no evidence by sight or smell of the violence that had happened here just a few days earlier. Barry’s cleaners had done wonders. Their main task would have been cleaning the floor, not only because of the body but also the number of individuals tromping through after she died.
A collection of charming teapots stood cheerfully in the hutch, and the crocheted place mats were on the table as they had always been. The potpourri in a delicate glass dish in the center of the table contained the cinnamon sticks emitting the pleasant odor. There was an unfinished grocery list held by a magnet in the shape of a geranium pot to the refrigerator, and I supposed there were still perishables in the refrigerator itself.
It was still light outside and the flowers and shrubs visible through the patio door were not yet showing any sign of neglect. I wondered what would happen to them.
We were quiet for some time before Miss Carey broke the silence. “I don’t suppose there is any reason to wait any longer, do you, dear? Why don’t we start right here in the kitchen? The bedroom will be the most difficult, I expect, so we should save that for the last.”
Her voice was steady and her eyes clear, and I understood her. By her years and experience, and by my own tragedies, we knew life went on.
She started in the kitchen drawers and I went to the hutch. Mr. Bedeman interrupted us briefly when he came into the kitchen to say good-bye. He thanked us both again for our assistance. Mr. Harmon and Mr. White continued in whatever they were doing in the sitting room, so we went steadily through the drawers.
The process did not take long. I gazed with pleasure at a few pieces of fine crystal ware displayed on the top shelf behind a glass door. There was one set of fine English bone china displayed on the top shelves also, but nothing, which could be defined as too personal for auction. There were two sets of beautifully decorated tablecloths with matching napkins in the bottom drawer. I felt a pang to think of strangers using Mrs. Marsh’s treasures. Later I would learn Mrs. Marsh had willed her pick of the teapots and a linen tableware setting to Miss Carey, and the china to her former hairdresser. That gave me a measure of comfort.
From the cabinet next to the refrigerator Miss Carey perused the cookbooks and a recipe box. “Nothing here for selling, I shouldn’t think,” she said.
“No,” I agreed. “Perhaps you could share some of her favorites with your mutual friends. I wouldn’t mind looking through them myself. She served some wonderful rum cake one day this spring.”
My companion agreed. We put the cookbooks aside. I insisted on being the one to climb the sturdy mini ladder folded neatly between the refrigerator and the wall to check out the top most cupboards. Except for two unused mouse traps, a partial roll of shelf liner, and two small plant pots, they were bare. Everything was kept in the lower cupboards at arms length for the petite Amelia, who had been at least four inches shorter than my own five foot six. Miss Carey was just a hare taller than myself, and handily peered through spices, storage containers, canned goods, and the stoneware Mrs. Marsh had used on a daily basis. She allowed me to bend down and peer into the lower shelves used for storing pots, pans, and bake ware, sparing her seventy plus year old knees the trip. Her own examination of the rest of the storage space produced many interesting discoveries, but nothing out of the ordinary for an elderly woman living alone.
Setting the cookbooks on the table, we moved back into the living room. We had been absent for about forty minutes but we hadn’t been missed very much. The lawyer and the policeman glanced up from their conversation. I told Mr. Harmon what our inventory had given us so far, and he readily agreed to let Miss Carey have the cookbooks and recipe box, writing them down efficiently.
The sitting room was more crowded than the kitchen had been, but in perfect order.
“Why don’t you see about this room, Sally, then join me in the workroom?” Anne Carey suggested, as she noticed my eyes moving about.
Instead of resuming their conversation Mr. Harmon followed Miss Carey and Detective White hung back with me and looked around.
“It’s a nice room,” he commented.
“Yes,” I agreed. “She had a gift for making things attractive.”
The walls were beige but the room’s color scheme was rose pink and light green, off set with navy blue. The settee, recliner, a charming straight back chair with a needlepoint cushion, and the two small tables, were adorned with handmade throws and doilies but it was not overdone. The end tables were covered with several issues of gardening and craft magazines. There were two beautiful garden prints on the walls, a footstool, and a sofa table behind the small couch. I was no expert, but I knew all of the furniture was good quality, the wood in the tables and couch probably oak. A tall umbrella plant in a bronze pot graced the far side of the front window. Conspicuous was the lack of a television set. There would be a small one on the dresser in the bedroom, but no cable and no VCR. A radio, fairly new, was in the workroom.
“Not much place for storage in here,” the policeman observed unnecessarily. He explained the police investigating the death had gone through the coat closet thoroughly and examined the contents of all of the pockets.
“I bet you didn’t find anything to help you,” I told him.
“Police investigations are confidential but you would be right,” he replied dryly.
With a different purpose in mind we opened the closet door and I surveyed the array of used coats, sweaters, hats and scarves.
“These have all been used and most of them are out of fashion,” I decided. “They should go to a local clothing bank or charity. I’ll tell Mr. Harmon.”
We moved on to look at the photographs on the sofa table.
“You would have looked at these before,” I said to him matter-of-factly.
“Of course,” he agreed. He picked up the ornate heavy framed picture of the deceased and her spouse. I had seen it before but I looked at it again. It had been taken at least twenty years earlier. The man was handsome in a rugged way, with strong features. His salt and pepper hairline was receding, but there was still a heavy mane of hair. His eyes were dark and bold. The gray pin stripped suit he wore fit him well, but did not conceal the portliness a prosperous life and later years had brought him. There was just a hint of a smile on the face as it dutifully faced the camera. I could never decide if Amelia’s husband had a sense of humor or not. I never asked her. She was sitting in front of him, her hair fixed in the same style she wore until her death, and even then allowed to go white. The lines in her face were less defined. She wore a soft blue jersey dress with a white lace collar. Unlike Mr. Leonard Marsh, the years had taken the pounds off. At sixty or so she was plumper. Her expression in the photograph was serene and serious.
“Doesn’t tell us much, does it?” I remarked to the detective.
“No, and neither do these,” he replied, indicating the other two picture frames. He picked each one up in turn, both of them handsomely framed as well. One was of the Marshes in their middle-aged years. They were with another couple, all of them in casual attire, posing happily on the deck of a sailing vessel. It looked like a casual snapshot that had been enlarged. Here Amelia Marsh had dark brown hair and her husband was slimmer. I guessed now the couple was the Fisks, and told the detective about them. He looked rather interested until I added they weren’t alive any more either. The last frame was a charming black and white print of a small child sitting on her mother’s lap, taken in the style of the early twentieth century.
“This is Amelia Marsh and her mother,” I said informatively. The woman had been handsome, and Amelia no less so as a rosy cheeked toddler. “She told me her father was a prosperous farmer in the English countryside and her mother was his second wife. I think she had this photograph restored.”
“Very nice,” he said dryly, “but not much help to me.”
“No,” I had to agree. “Mr. White,” I added impulsively, “I know this sounds like a question right out of a television cop show, but no one has said anything about the murder weapon. Did you find one?”
“No,” he answered me without hesitation, “we didn’t. Whatever the killer used to strike with, he must have taken with him.”
“It must have been bloody,” I protested, and swallowed hard before I added, “among other things.”
“No doubt. Our best theory is that the killer washed it off in the sink. He may have done so. If so he was thorough. Everything was washed down the drain. Our best guess is he dried it off and concealed it in his clothing before he left the scene. There was nothing we found here that fit the description the coroner gave for anything heavy enough or the right shape to hit her in the way she was struck.
“I have a question for you, Sally,” he countered. “You know the residence to the left of this one is empty?”
I nodded. “It has been for months. The former residents left it a mess, I was told. Barry had repair work done and new carpeting put in. I think it’s for sale. Why?”
“Have you noticed anyone over there? Did Mrs. Marsh mention anything about the place?”
I thought silently. “As to your first question,” I said finally, “I haven’t seen anyone in it since the renovations. I noticed the workers when driving my car by, but otherwise didn’t pay much attention. That residence is not very visible from mine. As to the second, she made no mention of anything out of the ordinary. I remember her saying she was glad when they moved out and she hoped for better neighbors next time. That’s all. If she noticed anything odd she didn’t say so. I think if she had I would remember. Sorry, but that’s it.”
I looked at him hoping he would volunteer more. He didn’t, and I added, “You might ask Miss Carey. Her front door across the street has a better angle of this building.” I turned to go to the bedroom as he nodded. Miss Carey met me at the door.
“Sally,” she said anxiously, “and maybe you too, officer. Come in here, won’t you? Unless the police have it, Amelia’s appointment book is missing.”
It was. Detective White had been through the victim’s pocketbook numerous times and put everything back. The pockets of the clothing she wore when killed contained only a handkerchief and a wrapped peppermint.
The four of us went through the room again. Mrs. Marsh used what was intended for the master bedroom as her workroom. It bore the unmistakable stamp of her neatness, but was crowded with needlework, the secretariat, a bookcase, and her clothes rack, with a few items long dry still hanging on it. We searched everywhere, including the pockets of sweaters and coats hanging in the wardrobe, in essence going back over where official hands had been at least once before. No one was surprised we did not find the appointment book. I took it upon myself to search the bathroom in the unlikely event Mrs. Marsh h