The Haunting Ballad by Michael Nethercott Read Free Book Online Page B

woman.”
    My partner smiled ever so slightly. “I see … a damsel who distressed.”
    I hopscotched over his wit. “Anyway, the theory that she killed herself—for whatever reason, knowable or not—seems like the path of least resistance.”
    â€œTrue, but what glory has ever been gained by such a path?”
    I tossed up my hands. “Glory? Look here. Quests, glory, shining knights … that’s all your department. Me, I’m strictly the no frills, no thrills type.”
    â€œAn uncommon description for a private detective, isn’t that?”
    â€œUncommon, but in my case accurate.”
    â€œCome now, lad, I know the true hero that lurks within your breast.”
    â€œThen you know that he’s real content to just stay there and not stumble out into mayhem. So what makes you so certain there’s a homicide here?”
    â€œI’m not certain at all, but I do think there’s cause for exploration. I was taken by Sally Joan’s depiction of her cousin as someone with a grand passion for life. A valid argument can be made that such a woman would not simply throw her life away.”
    â€œPeople do impulsive things all the time—especially hot-blooded people.”
    â€œQuite true,” my partner admitted.
    â€œOkay then. Couldn’t that be the story here?”
    â€œIt might well be. I’m merely questioning. Such is the nature of man—to ever question.”
    â€œThen mark me down as the last of the unnatural men. There’s nothing I love more than a big, fat, uncomplicated answer that I don’t have to probe for.”
    This got a laugh from my Irishman. “Ah, dear Lee! Ever the jester.”
    â€œYeah, that’s me all over. Mr. Chortles of 1957.” I sighed. “All right, I did sign up for this, come what may, so bring on the parade. Complete with Civil War drummers and ghost chanters.”
    â€œAh, yes, Mrs. Pattinshell … She certainly makes an extraordinary claim.”
    â€œWhich your haunted Irish heart no doubt embraces.”
    â€œNot necessarily.”
    â€œJust for the record, I don’t think we got anything at all from that one—except maybe the heebie-jeebies. Sally Joan didn’t offer much more. As for evidence … well, there isn’t any.”
    â€œThere’s the letter.”
    â€œSure, the one that can’t be found,” I said. “Not much help, is it? Besides, the fact that Lorraine Cobble had a meeting that morning might have nothing to do with her death twelve or thirteen hours later.”
    â€œIt might or it might not. Now, in addition to that letter, there’s also a second significant piece of correspondence. The one that does not exist.”
    â€œBy that you mean…”
    â€œI mean a suicide note. Or, more specifically, the lack of one. Frequently, in cases of self-inflicted death, the deceased has left a note stating reasons, regrets, or apologies.”
    â€œFrequently, but not always. Certainly not when the suicide was spur of the moment.”
    â€œQuite true.”
    I stopped in my tracks and caught my companion by the elbow. “Then what are we arguing about?”
    Mr. O’Nelligan raised his eyebrows. “Is it arguing we’re engaged in? I see it more as healthy discourse.”
    Glancing across the street, I noticed a drugstore—a good bet for finding a telephone. “Let’s go get the official lowdown on all this. That is, if the local Dick Tracy’s in a sharing mood.”
    A minute later, wedged in the store’s phone booth, I consulted Sally Joan’s list and dialed up the police station. “Is Detective Wilton in?”
    The cop at the desk shouted out, “Is Smack Wilton here? Anybody seen Smack?”
    Smack? Why did that ring a bell?
    Soon a hoarse, impatient voice came on. “Wilton here. Who’s this?”
    I gave him my name, profession, and home