Working Murder by Eleanor Boylan Read Free Book Online Page B

unique—”
    â€œOh, be quiet, Sadd,” I said. “Go on, Henry.”
    â€œIn deference to our grammarian”—Henry returned the coffee pot to the stove—"let me put
     it this way: We five know of May's pitiful plan to reopen Ellen's case. It would be
     comforting to think that we alone know of it, but since all of us have disclaimed
     sending that anonymous letter, we must assume that someone else with access to a New
     York City postbox within the last week also knows. That someone could be the shadowy
     Ellen herself, or someone who learned of the matter through the sources May contacted.”
    â€œOr,” said Tully, “someone else she told.”
    â€œExactly.” Henry stirred his coffee. “In fact, someone who could be at the wake tonight.”
    We sat in silence for a few seconds, then he added:
    â€œSo naturally, we should say nothing about the matter to anyone.”
    Then Tina said what we'd all agreed to say for Tully's sake: “Anyway, it ends with May's
     death.”
    Tully drew a shaky breath. “I don't think I'd have survived it. I really don't.”
    â€œShe dreaded telling you, Tully,” Henry said gently. “She knew it would bring back all
     the old pain.”
    Tully stood up. “Do you mind if I put a drop of brandy in my coffee? I brought some.”
    We all became very busy clearing the table as Tully went to his coat on a rack near the
     kitchen door.
    Sadd said: “Has it occurred to any of you that we will also probably be the only ones at
     the wake who know that May is dead?”
    We stopped carrying and looked at each other. Henry said slowly: “She died early this
     morning.... Tina called the obituary in for tomorrow's papers.... You're right, Sadd.”
    I said: “Maybe we shouldn't mention that either.”
    â€œI agree.” Tina was rinsing plates. “If only for the poor widow's sake. One death at a
     time.”
    â€œWon't she be missed?” asked Henry.
    â€œMay's been ‘missed’ for fifty years.” Sadd said it almost absently, but the effect on us
     was instant and somber. I broke the silence.
    â€œI wonder if anybody other than family who learns of May's death will remember about
     Ellen.”
    Tully said, sipping his spiked coffee: “Crimes of that type are pretty much forgotten in
     fifty years—unless your name happens to be Lindbergh.”
    â€œThis wasn't a crime,” said Sadd, “it was a disappearance. It isn't a crime to
     disappear.”
    â€œYou know what I mean.”
    Indeed we did. Heartbreak and ruined lives are not crimes; they are much, much worse.
     Tully went on, the brandy already making him lugubrious:
    â€œWe were all so close, so close. My wife was May's sister. That's why we built next door
     to them in Gloucester.”
    Sadd and I looked at each other, and I could swear he was thinking what I was thinking.
     Why this recitation of known facts? Why is it the essence of a bore—granted, a tortured
     one—to prolong the account with which he has the floor by piling on givens?
    â€œFrank Dawson and I were partners in Dawson, Hewitt, and Jerome. Irene and I never had
     any children. We adored Ellen. She was only my niece by marriage but I was just as
     fond—”
    He stopped short, gulped his coffee, and began again:
    â€œDo you know that last night May and I talked about Ellen for the first time in years? We
     went out to dinner—I took her to La Maison Bleue on Eighty-sixth Street—and I was able
     to say ‘May, dear, don't do it, don't start this terrible business, for her sake
     don't.’ She was quite calm—I don't know if I'd persuaded her—and when we got home she
     went to bed almost at once.”
    Sadd said: “Tully, when did you last see May alive?”
    More gulping. “The police asked me that and I didn't know how to answer. After she went
     to bed, I watched TV for an hour