The Dead Letter by Finley Martin

look.
    â€œWhat’s that mean?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œSpill it.”
    â€œI’m not convinced that they’re a good fit.”
    â€œHow so? She seemed like a pretty good catch to me.”
    â€œWell, look at the way she dresses. She’s too fancy. Cocktail dress for a night in…in Charlottetown? Come on.”
    â€œAre you suggesting that The Blue Peter isn’t stylish enough for dress-up? I’m offended.”
    â€œYou know what I mean.”
    â€œWell, she comes from Halifax. It’s different there. I’m sure she’ll blend in…in good time.”
    â€œMaybe, maybe not.”
    â€œYou weren’t much different when you came down from Ottawa, as I recall.”
    â€œThat was different.”
    â€œMaybe, maybe not,” mocked Mary Anne.
    â€œI still think that something’s not right with her,” said Anne.
    â€œOf course. What girl in her right mind would be interested in a handsome, strong, witty, intelligent guy with money? What was I thinking?”
    â€œNow you’re making fun!”
    â€œAs long as you’re talking foolishness, you’re gonna give me plenty of material to work with.”
    â€œWhere is she staying?”
    â€œI didn’t ask. At Dit’s, I presume.”
    â€œIsn’t that some kind of conflict of interest? She’s a nurse, and he’s her patient. It’s like that Stockholm syndrome or something. Right?”
    â€œLike I said…‘plenty of material to work with,’ hon.”

14.
    â€œIf you’re selling insurance, politics or religion, you can turn around right now and go back where you came from.”
    Edna Jollimore Hibley had received an odd call from an odd cousin in Nova Scotia. Someone was looking for Carolyn, he’d said, and he had given out Edna’s home address. Anne had picked his message up on her answering machine, and it led her to Edna’s front porch.
    Now Edna stood in the open front doorway of her home, her arms crossed in front of her, her feet planted firmly apart, her head tilted like a cat fixated on a mole.
    â€œCarolyn Jollimore?” asked Anne.
    â€œWhat’s your business with Carolyn?” Edna asked.
    â€œIt’s personal. And private.”
    â€œI’m her sister. You can tell me. What’s this all about?”
    â€œIt’s still personal and private. It’s also important.”
    Edna stared at Anne like a fortune-teller at her tarot cards, but finally she stepped aside, motioned for Anne to come in, and led her into the parlour.
    The parlour was a stiff, immaculate, old-fashioned room. A red and gold oriental rug covered a square in the middle of the floor. Mid-century black-and-white relatives looked back from ornate frames on the wall. A silver tea service gleamed on a side table. Several straight-back chairs and a matching settee furnished the room. Handmade needlepoint pillows rested on the chairs and settee. Each carried a floral theme and an inspiring word like serenity, courage, or wisdom. Edna ushered Anne to the least comfortable-looking chair, while she took her place on the settee.
    â€œCarolyn is dead,” she began. A shudder interrupted the sternness in her voice. It was as if uttering those words would make it true. “It will be eleven years on the nineteenth.”
    That unexpected news left Anne nearly speechless. All she could muster in the form of words was, “I’m…so sorry.”
    Edna seemed indifferent to Anne’s expression of regret and remained distant and impatient. “What’s this about?”
    Anne took out the letter Carolyn had written and handed it to Edna.
    â€œThis letter was mailed just before her death. But it was only delivered to me by the mail carrier yesterday.”
    Edna read the letter. Then she leaned forward. She would have toppled to the floor if Anne had not leapt toward the settee and grabbed her. She was conscious but