"My name's Sophie Greenway. I'm the food editor for the Times Register in Minneapolis. My husband is Bram Baldric." She thought putting a little information up front might be a good ploy to get the woman's attention.

"Say, I've heard of Mr. Baldric. He's the one with that talk radio show."

"That's right. We're in town because Bram is doing his show live from the fair grounds tomorrow afternoon."

"I was over at the fair today. He'll get a great crowd."

Sophie felt pretty confident she had her. "I was wondering if I could come over to your house tomorrow afternoon. I was hoping to talk to you while I was in town."

"Me? Why?"

Sophie was afraid that if she said too much, Dotty might refuse. "I'd rather explain it to you in person."

For a few seconds, Dotty didn't speak. "Well," she said, finally, "I guess that would be okay."

Sophie could hear the water in the shower stop. The curtain was yanked back. "What time is good for you?"

"I have a doctor's appointment at noon. How does two sound?"

"I'll be there. And thanks, Dotty."

10.

Dotty Mulloy's home was an old white clapboard farmhouse nestled into a tall stand of jack pine, a good hundred yards in from the main road. A screened porch stretched all the way across the front, and that's where Dotty was sitting the following afternoon when Sophie pulled into the long drive.

Based on Dotty's white hair, arthritic-looking hands, and the cane resting next to her rocking chair, Sophie estimated Dotty's age at somewhere in her late seventies. Her eyes were lively, and she smiled broadly as she motioned Sophie to the wicker love seat.

"Lovely day," said Dotty, adjusting her cotton skirt carefully over her knees. One knee was wrapped in an Ace bandage, while the other looked swollen and sore.

Sophie sat down, noticing a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses resting on the table between them.

"Help yourself," said Dotty. "It's a warm day. I thought we could use a little refreshment."

"Would you like me to pour?"

"Go ahead. I was hoping my husband could be here to meet you, but he had business in town. While I was making the lemonade, I was listening to your husband's radio show. I think it's such fun that he's broadcasting live from our fair. He has the most wonderful voice. And he always sounds like . . . I don't know, like he's smiling at us-like he's up to something."

"He usually is," said Sophie, crossing one leg over the other. She'd worn a pretty yellow summer dress and matching heels today instead of her more comfortable jeans, sandals, and short-sleeved cotton shirt. "I'll pass on your compliment."

After taking a sip of lemonade, Dotty continued, "So, put me out of my misery. Tell me why the restaurant reviewer at the Times Register wants to see me."

Sophie wished she had a more pleasant answer. Instead of launching into a long explanation, she took the picture of John and Mary Washburn out of her purse and handed it to Dotty. "Do you recognize that man?"

All of Dotty's good humor faded instantly. "Of course I do," she said, her voice flat. "I don't know the woman, but that's Morgan Walters, my sister's husband."

"Look carefully, Mrs. Mulloy. Are you positive?"

Dotty held the photo closer. "Sure I'm sure. There's that hideous snake tattoo on his arm, and he's wearing those awful tight jeans, just like he always did. It didn't leave anything to the imagination, if you catch my drift. No," she sighed, shaking her head, "it's not likely I'd forget what my sister's murderer looked like."

"Murderer?"

"That's what I said."

"But, I thought . . . I mean I'd heard-"

"That Laura committed suicide?" She looked away, her expression growing steely. "That's what Morgan wanted everyone to think. He might have fooled the police, but he never fooled me or my husband. We always knew Morgan had done it. He was no good. Oh, he had a line with women that was smooth as butter, but if he cared about Laura so much, why did he isolate her out there at that godforsaken house? Why did he leave her all alone for weeks at a time?"

"When were they married?"

"April of 1960."

Less than a year after the photo had been taken, Sophie thought, and less than two years after John and Mary were married. That made John Washburn-or Morgan Walters-a bigamist.

"When did Laura die?"

Looking down at her hands, Dotty replied, "November 16, 1965. It was a Saturday. Her best friend, Rebecca Scoville, found her."

It was the same year Sophie had taken her unforgettable motorcycle ride with Morgan. "What did Morgan Walters do for a living?" she asked, afraid that she already knew the answer.

"He was a traveling salesman. Don't ask me what he sold. I don't think I ever knew." Dotty glanced at the snapshot again. "Who's the woman he's standing with in the photo?"

"A relative," Sophie answered. She hoped Dotty would leave it at that.

"Humph. He never was very forthcoming about who his people were. From the very first, my husband and I figured he had something to hide, but Laura was head over heels in love with him. Nothing we ever said made a difference."

"How did your sister die?" asked Sophie.

"The police said she hung herself. Tied one part of a rope around a pipe in the basement, put a noose around her neck, stood on a chair, then kicked it out from under her. But it was all lies. Why would my sister kill herself? The fact that she didn't leave a note should have been a red flag to anyone who was looking. Laura always told me how much she loved her life. Loved Morgan. Then again, I thought it was funny when I'd drive out to their place and she couldn't get rid of me fast enough. Why would she act like that with her own sister-unless she had something to hide, too?"

"What do you think it was?"

Dotty lowered her voice. "I saw lots of liquor bottles around that house. Laura didn't drink, so that left Morgan. I think she was trying to hide what was going on. There were times when I'd drive out to Trout Lake and Laura would be nursing cuts on her face, or bruises on her arms. Morgan did that to her. He had her so twisted around, so scared of her own shadow, that she wouldn't even confide in her own sister."

"Did you ever confront him about it?" asked Sophie.

She shook her head. "It's one of the biggest regrets of my life. I should have done more to help Laura get away from him." She wiped a tear from her eye.

"What happened to Morgan after your sister died?"

"He sold the house and left town. Far as I know, he's never been back." She removed a handkerchief from her apron pocket and dabbed at her eyes. "How come you're so interested in Morgan?"

Sophie'd been thinking about how she would answer that question. "The truth is, I ran into an old friend recently who used to know Morgan. He gave me the snapshot. My friend thought Morgan might still be living up here, so I told him I'd check it out when I was in town. Actually, I met Morgan myself once when I was thirteen. He took me on my first motorcycle ride."

"Did he ask you for a date?"

Sophie did a double take. "No."

Dotty snorted. "From small comments Laura used to make, I got the impression that he was a . . . well, a very highly sexed man." Dotty's face flushed. "Thank God, my husband was never like that."

"So, you think he was unfaithful?"

"I do."

"With women around town?"

Dotty considered the question. "I doubt it. He was gone so much, I'll bet he had a woman in every small town from here to Nebraska."

It was an interesting adjunct to Sophie's theory. A traveling salesman with more than one wife. Maybe even more than two. "You mentioned that Laura had a best friend."

"Yes, Rebecca Scoville. Nice woman. Laura and Rebecca were the same age-went to school together. Laura was nine years younger than me. I suppose I seemed like an old fuddy-duddy to her."

"Where does Rebecca live?"

"Down in the Cities. After her divorce, she started a small business. She still sends me a Christmas card every year."

"I wonder if I could get her address."

With great effort, Dotty got up. "I'm kind of slow. The arthritis in my knees is the worst."

"Can I help?"

"No, just drink your lemonade. I'll be back shortly." The screen door banged behind her as she entered the house.

Sophie finished her glass and was just about done with a second when Dotty returned. "Here," she said, dropping a file folder in Sophie's lap.

"What's all this?"

Dotty didn't answer until she was once again seated in the rocker. "It's a copy of the official coroner's report on Laura's death. I stuck a copy of the police report in there, too."

Sophie was amazed. "How did you get your hands on that?"

Rocking slowly, Dotty said, "Well, the police report was public information, so that wasn't a problem. But the coroner's report, that was another matter entirely. See, the county coroner retired a few years after Laura died. He was a medical doctor and a friend of my husband's. Seems crazy to me, but nobody was interested in his files back then. That's the way the government was run. Maybe it still is. Anyway, he asked us if we wanted Laura's records. Of course we wanted them. I hoped that, one day, that file would help us prove what Morgan did to her." She sighed. "It's a terrible thing, being so powerless. I know the truth, but I'm helpless to do anything about it."

Sophie looked at the file. On the outside, Dotty had written Rebecca Scoville's home address.

"You take that with you," Dotty continued, looking off in the distance. "I'm an old woman now. I've got no use for it anymore. Maybe you'll find something in there I missed."

July, 1960 Hey, Gilbert- Okay, so I'm not very good at this writing stuff. Neither are you. It's been at least a year since my last letter. Lots of changes. I was down in Jeff City about six months ago-thought of trying to see you, but I guess what happened really put the fear of God in me. I stay as far away from the police now as I can get.

You probably want to know what I did with the money. Maybe you'll think I'm a chump, but I couldn't stand to be around it, so I dumped it in the nearest gutter. I'm on my own now, and I'm learning some important things about myself. Believe it or not, I'm good with people. Really good. But I'm not so good at punching a time clock every day. I went that route for a while. Worked in a bakery. Man, those early hours are enough to kill your soul. Now I've found something better- something that gives me more freedom. I hate all the worn-out rules people try and make you believe. I'm still a rebel at heart, but a quiet one now.

I've taken a job as a salesman. My route includes what they call the "five-state region." South Dakota, North Dakota, Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Iowa. Beautiful country.

You know how I always thought my brother was a jerk? Well, I've changed my mind. He's on to something, Gilbert. He's working hard. Making a good life for himself. When people looked at us, they always thought I was the smart one. People can sure get the wrong idea. What a guy looks like on the outside doesn't mean shit.

Hey, I forgot to tell you. I got married in April. Man, she's a peach. Her name's Laura, like the song. Raven hair. Beautiful blue eyes. I suppose it sounds sappy, but I'm so in love with her I could burst. I'll send you a picture next time.

If they let you read books, there's a couple I'd send you, books Laura got me to read. One is Catcher in the Rye. Another was Lord of the Flies. That one was weird. But the one that really hit me hard was-Too Late the Phalarope by Alan Paton. Paton wrote Cry, the Beloved Country too, but this book is better. It's all about a man who doesn't feel at home-not anywhere. Not in his house, not in his body, and not in his mind. He has a deep longing for love, but he never quite finds it. He also has terrible bouts of depression because of what he calls "his lust." See, he's locked in this unforgiving, puritanical society, and because of that, he's doomed to destroy himself and everybody around him. But the point is, he's a good man . . . a loving man trapped in a society with a lot of unjust rules. It's a sad story. Tragic, even. For a man like that, maybe tragedy is the only possible ending.

J. D.

11.

"So," said Bram, flipping through the file on the death of Laura Walters, "you actually think Bernice's father was married to two women?"

Sophie was loading up the dishwasher. They'd returned home from their whirlwind trip to Grand Rapids shortly after nine. While Sophie attended to a bit of hotel business, Bram had occupied himself by preparing a couple of his famous Bruder Basil omelettes. And now, Sophie was cleaning up.

Over dinner, she'd finally thrown caution to the wind and confessed her real reason for wanting to visit Grand Rapids. She was entirely too excited by her conversation with Dotty Mulloy to keep it to herself.

First, she explained her personal connection to Morgan Walters. Bram took it all in with a small roll of his eyes. Next she told him that both she and Dotty were positive that the man in the picture, otherwise known as John Washburn, was none other than Morgan Walters. The tattoo on his arm proved it. But the clincher was, Morgan had murdered his wife and gotten away with it. He was a murderer as well as a bigamist.

Amazing as it might seem, instead of insisting she drop the matter, that she was a total busybody with no business prying into other people's affairs, Bram warmed to the subject. He'd read through the complete file while Sophie puttered in the kitchen. And now he was ready to talk.

"Sure, I think he's a bigamist," said Sophie. "Dotty said he was the kind of guy who probably had a woman in every town he called on. What if he had more than two wives, Bram? What if he had three or four. Or more!"

Bram held up a hand to quell her enthusiasm. He was sitting at the dining room table, a glass of ice tea resting next to the file. "Trust my instincts on this one, Soph. It gets to be a case of diminishing returns after awhile, especially if he had to support more than one household. Why not just have affairs? Why get married?"

Sophie leaned against the kitchen sink, tossing a damp dish towel over her shoulder. "Maybe he loved weddings, or maybe he harbored some ethical notion that he shouldn't sleep with a woman unless he was married to her."

Doing his best Orson Welles imitation, Bram said, "Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?"

"It is evil," said Sophie, joining him at the table. "If he marries, then murders."

"He hasn't killed the wife he has now, and they've been together forever. What's her name again?"

"Mary."

Bram leaned back in his chair. "I don't know, Soph. It seems pretty clear you don't have all the facts."

"No, but I've got a police report on a death that should never have happened."

"Yeah, I'll admit that was pretty interesting." He ticked the salient points off on his fingers. "Laura Walter's body was found hanging in the basement of her home by her best friend, Rebecca Scoville, at approximately ten-thirty on the morning of November 16, 1965. A Saturday morning. Scoville said she'd stopped by because she and Laura had planned to do some Christmas shopping together that day. When she couldn't get a rise out of anyone inside, she used a key hidden under a flower pot to get in. After discovering the body, she rushed upstairs to call the police just as Morgan entered through the back door. At Rebecca's prompting, he ran downstairs and found his wife hanging from a water pipe. The police arrived a few minutes later. No note was found at the scene."

"Which is suspicious," said Sophie, drumming her fingers on the table. "Don't most suicides leave notes?"

"How the hell should I know? To continue: Morgan said he'd gone into town to a get haircut, but that he'd forgotten his wallet and had to come back to get it. He confirmed that his wife had been depressed recently, but he never thought she'd kill herself."