"But in the letters, this J. D.-whoever he is-said he didn't even like being in the same room with the money, so he dumped it in the nearest gutter."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Angelo scratched his head.

"Look," said Sophie, "in these letters, he did admit to having more than one wife, right?"

"Not exactly. But he talked about several women, and he was married to all of them. You could gather that much from the dates. See, this Gilbert Struthers got religion in prison. He'd saved some of the letters so he sent them back to J. D. and basically told him to repent before it was too late."

"Did he talk about Laura's death? Or Bliss?"

"Yeah, but again, he never admitted to killing anybody."

"Well, he wouldn't. But maybe he used those letters as a kind of confessional."

"Yeah, I thought about that, too."

"What are we supposed to do?" said Sophie, tossing her pen on the table. "We don't have absolute proof of anything, not even the bigamy. And we disagree on who murdered Runbeck."

Angelo leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees. "Somebody should pay for what happened to Runbeck."

"And Laura and Bliss."

"You think that tattoo's pretty conclusive, huh?"

"In my opinion, it's proof positive. Milton's our man."

"I'd be thrilled if that turned out to be the case. Bernice loves her uncle, but it's nothing like the way she feels about her dad. You know, Sophie, I used to have this idea that small towns were where the salt of the earth lived. In some ways, I still believe that. When I pay for something in a store here, people look me in the eye. Maybe they even smile. In New York, shopkeepers look at your hands. It's a different world. In Rose Hill, you don't get a lot of attitude."

"Scandinavians don't know how to give attitude. It's genetic."

He smiled. "Yeah, I've noticed. But if you ask me, Scandinavians could use a little Italy in their souls. The thing is, after I see what's happening around here, I'm beginning to think people are basically the same wherever you look."

"You're probably right." Sophie wrote her cell phone number on the edge of the scratch paper, then ripped it off. "I have to drive home this afternoon. Can we agree that if we learn anything new, we'll let each other know?"

"You got a deal." He shook her hand, then took out his own card and wrote his number on the back.

"I have a couple of leads that I think might be promising."

"And I've got an idea, something that might help protect Cora Runbeck." He took a final sip of coffee, then got up and dumped the rest in the sink. "An associate of mine used to call it the 'indirect direct' approach. I'll let you know if it works."

33.

About half an hour out of the Cities, Sophie answered her cell phone. Laura Walters's friend, Rebecca Scoville, was on the line. She'd finally arrived home from her business trip and said she'd be happy to meet with Sophie. They made a date for three at Rebecca's office.

Sophie spent a few minutes gathering her thoughts. This was her one shot, and she didn't want to blow it. Shortly before three, she entered the Lamar Building. Northstar Investigations was on the third floor. A receptionist buzzed Rebecca's office and several seconds later, a white-haired woman dressed in jeans, a sweatshirt and running shoes appeared.

"I came into work today, but just for a couple hours," Rebecca said over her shoulder as she led Sophie down a long hallway to her corner office. She sat down quickly behind a large mahogany desk piled high with files. Behind her was an antique credenza filled with books. "I've been out of town, so I'm pretty backed up. But you piqued my curiosity, Ms. Greenway. Please," she said, extending her hand to a chair, "make yourself comfortable."

Sophie pulled the strap of her purse off her shoulder and sat down. Rebecca's grandmotherly features didn't fit the image of a private investigator. Or maybe Sophie was looking at Kinsey Millhone thirty years from now.

"Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"No thanks."

"Okay, so I understand you've got some questions about Laura Walters."

"I was told the two of you were best friends." Rebecca sighed. "That was a long time ago. But yes, we were. We lived across the street from each other when we were growing up. We even got married around the same time. Laura stayed married, but I got divorced a year later." Her matter-of-fact speaking style reminded Sophie of the old TV show Dragnet.

"You knew her husband?"

"Morgan? Sure, we were good friends."

"I talked to Laura's sister recently. She seems to think Laura's death wasn't a suicide."

"You came here to talk about Laura's death?"

Sophie nodded.

"Why? It's ancient history."

"I have reason to believe that the man she married, the man you know as Morgan Walters, was an impostor. He used a number of aliases over the years, and was married to at least three other women at the same time he was married to Laura."

"Morgan?" She gave Sophie a skeptical look. "You can't be serious."

"I'm completely serious. The fact that he was a bigamist-"

"Wait a minute here, Ms. Greenway. Are we talking fact or theory?"

Sophie removed the snapshot from her purse and handed it over. "Do you recognize that man?"

Rebecca slipped on her reading glasses. After gazing at it for several seconds, she said, "It's Morgan. Who's the woman he's with?"

"Her name is Mary."

"One of his other wives?"

"No, she's married to his brother."

"Morgan didn't have a brother," she said, glancing down at the picture again. "He was an only child. Look, why all the interest in him now? Laura's been dead for what? Forty years?"

"It's a long, complicated story," said Sophie. "At this point, I can't give you any more details."

"Are you a P.I.?"

She shook her head. "Just a friend of the family."

"Morgan's family?"

"Something like that."

"Maybe you should let a professional look into it."

"We might do that, but for now, I'm hoping you can help me out."

Rebecca shrugged. "Okay. Go ahead. Ask your questions."

"If Morgan was a bigamist, it doesn't automatically follow that he was a murderer. But when I learned from Laura's sister that she was positive Morgan had killed Laura and then covered it up by making it look like a suicide, I have to wonder. Is there anything to it?"

Rebecca looked at the snapshot again. "I remember his tattoo now. It's got to be the same man." She glanced up. "And you're certain he was married to other women?"

Sophie nodded. "What sort of man was he?"

"Smart," said Rebecca, dropping the photo on her desk. "And surprisingly sweet for such a rough-and-tumble young guy. I thought he was good for Laura. She was a troubled woman, Ms. Greenway, with a lot of personal problems. Morgan told me once her problems were what had attracted him to her. He thought he could help."

"In what way?"

"This was all such a long time ago," she said, fingering a gold locket hanging around her neck. "Morgan and Laura met in a bar in Coleraine. You know where that is?"

"My grandparents used to live in Grand Rapids. I met Morgan and Laura when I was a teenager. He gave me a ride on his motorcycle. It's something I've never forgotten."

Rebecca smiled at the memory. "Yes, he sure loved that hunk of junk. I thought it was loud and smelly. He used to rev the motor when I was over at the house. He did it just to get a rise out of me. He was a real tease. Full of fun. Anyway, the night he and Laura met, they were both pretty drunk. Laura wouldn't tell him her name, so he called her Blue Eyes. I guess he was pretty closed-mouthed about himself, too, so she called him Jim Stark. She thought he was the spitting image of James Dean in East of Eden, her favorite movie. I guess that was the name of the character Dean played. To hear Laura tell it, it was love at first sight. I'm not sure Morgan-" She stopped. "What's Morgan's real name? Just for the record."

"Milton."

She made a sour face. "I'll stick with Morgan. I'm not sure Morgan felt the same way, but they hooked up pretty fast. Laura told me she didn't remember giving him her phone number, but she must have because he called her the next time he was in town. From then on, whenever he came through Grand Rapids, which was every couple of months, they'd go out on a date. They dated a few years and then announced their engagement. Laura was the happiest I'd ever seen her. Morgan wanted to buy this rundown old shack out in the country, fix it up. He hated cities, even small towns. In some ways, he was a loner. But so was Laura. They were very much in love, I can vouch for that. They both worked on the house, but because Morgan was gone a lot, most of the work fell to Laura. She didn't mind. It gave her a focus, kept her busy for almost two years. I remember helping her paint one of the rooms cherry red. Hideous color. They didn't have a lot of money, so Laura worked on and off in Grand Rapids clerking at Kremer's department store. Driving home one night, she wrecked the old beater Morgan had bought her. It was a '51 Thunder-bird. Blue and white. Of course, it came out later that she was drunk. Her drinking got worse and worse over time until Morgan was simply beside himself. He didn't know what to do."

"Laura's sister said Morgan was the one who drank."

"I'm sure Morgan probably told her that to save face for Laura. If you want my opinion, Dotty Mulloy is an old prune. I think she was born that way. Laura loved her, but she didn't like her. That was one big reason why she jumped at the chance to put some distance between them. That way, her sister couldn't pop over whenever she felt like it. As time went on, Laura's drinking got so bad she couldn't even hold a part-time job. Staying home depressed her, so she started hitching rides with friends to bars. I'm not positive, but I think she started sleeping around. She already hated herself for so many reasons, it was just one more thing to add to the list. She was down in the dumps if Morgan was home, then back in the dumps when he left. Today, she could have gone to a therapist and gotten some help; but back then, if you suffered from depression, you were out of luck. She drank to deaden the pain, but in the end, it didn't help."

"So you're saying she really did commit suicide?"

"I'm positive of it."

"Why?"

"Let me give you a little background. First, you should know that I've investigated dozens of suicides over the years. Very often, families of suicides find it impossible to believe that their loved one could have done something so horrible. It makes them feel impotent, like they should have seen it coming, should have been able to prevent it. It's especially true if the person who dies doesn't leave a note. Laura didn't. It becomes easier on family members if they convince themselves that their loved one was the victim of foul play. And when it comes to suicide, the family has an uphill struggle if they want the police to investigate the death."

"But don't all suicides have to be investigated?"

"Yes, any unnatural or unattended death, which includes suicides, homicides, and accidents. But I'm talking about investigating a death as if it were a homicide. Dotty was treated fairly by the police, although I'm sure she didn't think so. Most suicides are just that-suicides. When there's no evidence to the contrary, and there wasn't in Laura's case, then the police don't want to waste their time investigating a dead end."

"Sure, I understand, but-"

"Sometimes Laura would call me late at night when she was drunk and Morgan was on the road. She'd tell me she was no good, that Morgan deserved so much better. By the fourth year of their marriage, he was urging her to take classes at the local junior college. She loved to read, even wrote a little poetry, so he thought she might like to take some writing courses. I offered to drive her, show her the ropes, but she just never got around to it. Morgan was so frustrated with her. We'd talk about her sometimes, although he didn't like to admit Laura was as sick as she was, even to himself. He desperately wanted to help, but she'd begun to shut him out. I think he wondered if she was seeing someone else when he wasn't around, and of course, that hurt him terribly.

"One hot summer night, a few months before she took her life, Laura and I were sitting on her front porch. Somehow or other the subject of suicide came up. Laura asked me if I'd ever thought about it. I told her I hadn't. She said she'd wanted to do it many times, but in her saner-or more sober-moments, she was glad she hadn't gone through with it. She knew her drinking made her depression worse. That's when she felt most like ending her life. The worst time for her was the dead of night. Everything was so painful then. I still remember the look on her face when she talked about it. In my entire life, I've never seen such . . . such utter desolation. But she said that she'd made herself a promise. If she was going to kill herself, it would have to be on a bright sunny morning, with the birds singing and sun shining. She couldn't have a hangover. She'd have to be completely straight. That way she'd know her feelings were real, that it wasn't just a passing mood, but a decision." Leaning forward, Rebecca continued, "Laura killed herself on a bright sunny morning. She waited until she knew it was what she really wanted, that for her, there was no other way."

The silence in the room closed in around them.

"Morgan may have been a bigamist, Ms. Greenway, but he wasn't a murderer."

June, 1974 Dear Gilbert: Thanks for your note. Yes, you're right. This is a horrible time for me. It was almost nine years ago that Laura died. And now Bliss. It's enough to make a guy turn his back on the people who count on him and just run for his life.

Between you and me, I'm pretty sure the chief of police thinks I did it. Can you fathom that? He believes I murdered Bliss and then covered it up by making it look like a robbery. When he interrogated me last week, he said that in his experience, nobody got murdered so violently unless there was a huge amount of emotion involved. To him, that meant the victim knew her killer. There was no forced entry, no sign of a struggle, so in his mind, I was the most likely suspect. I feel like we're playing some kind of chess game. Thank God I found a guy in La Crosse, Wisconsin, who'd vouch for me. He gave the police a statement yesterday, said I'd been in town the night it happened. With him for a witness, I don't think there's much they can do to me. And I got at least one cop on my side. He's a neighbor, been a friend for years. He used to know my wife when she was a kid. He's seen firsthand how much I loved her, and how much she loved me.

It's love that's important, Gil, not the other crap that happens. I've got to keep my eye on the ball, not let my wife's death break my spirit.

J. D.

34.

Sunlight flooded Byron Jenny's office, where Plato now sat, his feet up on the desk. He was making a paper airplane, something he often did when the world overwhelmed him. He found that mindless activity helped him to focus his thoughts. "Simplify," he whispered, knowing that his life was anything but simple. Folding the paper wings into place, he wondered idly if thinking could be carcinogenic. He supposed it could be, although that notion probably put him in the same health-obsessed camp as his father.

Plato wasn't depressed. If anything, he walked with a certain spring in his step these days. His father was no longer high atop the family pedestal, and that made Plato feel vindicated. As far as he was concerned, no matter what everyone said out loud, each family member knew in his or her heart that John Washburn had done something very, very, very bad. Plato remembered reading once that suicide rates always went down during wars. Perhaps that was why he was in such good spirits. His family was at war-with the anarchy of town gossip, with Cora Runbeck's evil threats, and with a police department intent on putting a not-so-innocent man behind bars. The whole situation inspired barrels of overwrought emotions. High drama. But the final outcome didn't matter all that much. In the end, everything turned to dust. The only question was, how long would it take?

In the midst of his nihilistic meditations came a knock on the door.

"Enter at your own risk," he called, waiting for the door to open. When it did, he propelled the airplane into the blue. It took an immediate nose dive and landed at Gloria Applebaum's feet. Gloria had been Byron Jenny's personal assistant. Now she was the temporary managing editor.

"Nice touch," she said, picking up the fatally flawed piece of origami and undulating toward his desk.

For the past few weeks, Plato had begun to experience certain moments in his day in a kind of weird slow motion. He closed his eyes and shook the wheels in his head, hoping to rearrange them. When he opened his eyes, Gloria was standing at his desk. She wants something, he thought silently. He hoped he wouldn't have to play twenty questions to find out what it was. Everybody had to be someplace, so that's why he'd come to the paper this morning. He had no intention of working, though it was important to look busy; otherwise people talked. All he really wanted was to be left alone.

Dropping the airplane on the desk, Gloria smiled. "What do you want?" He frowned in an effort to look substantial.

"I'm hoping I can help you." She swiveled her hips into a chair.

"Oh God."

"Look, Mr. Washburn, the newspaper's in a bad way. Decisions are being left unmade. Our creditors are starting to get nervous. We need a leader, someone to part the Red Sea for us, like Byron used to do."

"Speak English."

"I want his job. Permanently. I need you to make the official announcement today. Without your backing, your clear and unequivocally stipulated confidence in my considerable, substantial, and weighty abilities, we're just spinning our wheels around here."