the advisability of calling the police.
Tilda was against it. Thereâd been two murders of homeless people during the time sheâd been on the street, and the police hadnât solved either of them. All theyâd done, as far as she could see, was make comments about the homeless, comments she could describe only as gratuitous. Tilda had no faith in the police.
Rima considered telling Tilda that only sixty percent of all reported murders are ever resolved (as distinct from solved, so Rima wasnât even sure what the statistic meant), but since she didnât know how she knew that and maybe it wasnât even true, she kept her mouth shut. Was sixty percent a lot or way too little? It apparently beat the success rate in other casesârapes, muggings, theftsâall hollow.
Addison was also against making the call. This seemed to her the sort of story that would immediately make it into the paper and onto the Internet, where it would live forever. And not on some little site no one ever visited either; Addison could picture this in the dayâs AOL headlines. If they were willing to post âAirline apologizes to passenger. He couldnât hold it any longer,â then obviously there was nothing too low. Addison had lived much of her adult life faintly convinced that a large segment of the reading public and the entire news industry would be really happy if she died in some bizarre and puzzling way. She said that sheâd put a watch on eBay, and proposed that they all start locking the doors even when someone was home.
They were interrupted by Kenny Sullivan, postman of myth and legend. Addison stepped out onto the walkway to tell him all about it, and Rima heard him promising to spread the word to the neighbors, with utmost discretion, of course. Possibly someone else had seen something.
Then the women sat together, eating the sausages, drinking the tea, and listening to the radio. Addison and Tilda assured Rima many times that none of it was her fault. They repeated this once too often; it lost its credibility.
Rima was amazed. A crime had been committed in the home of a world-famous mystery writer, and as far as she could see, nothing was going to be done to solve it. It occurred to her that she herself was the most likely suspect. A troubled young woman, new to the household, with an unlikely story, and offering only the vaguest description of the perpetrator.
âThe best way to clear yourself,â said Maxwell Lane, âis to find the one whoâs guilty,â and if Rima were a world-famous mystery writer, then surely she would know how to go about doing that. If she were Addison, she would at the very least search Rimaâs room. Really, the only thing that could be said in Rimaâs favor was that she was too obvious.
(2)
Even minus Thomas Grand, Witâs End had no shortage of tiny corpses. Over the next few days Rima found: The Box-Top Murders, poison in the breakfast cereal; One of Us, rattler in the medicine chest; and The Widow Reed, weed whacker in the hedges. The Widow Reed was a particularly grisly dollhouse, bits of tiny gore on the leaves in the garden and on the flagstones of the walkway. Rima was ashamed to remember that this had been one of her favorites among Addisonâs books; she hadnât pictured the body quite so chewed. Addison had the Widow Reed dollhouse in the formal dining room.
What Rima didnât find: the dollhouse for Ice City; the tickets sheâd been given for the leashless dogs; the first page of the onionskin letter.
She had managed to find another onionskin letter that appeared to be from the same woman:
21200 Old Santa Cruz Hwy
Holy City, California 95026
May 4, 1983
Â
Dear Maxwell Lane:
Expect you got my letter of April 20th even though you didnât respond. I meant no insult, hope none was taken. Expect you are just real busy with your crime solving. Me, I feed the cats ( did I mention I have twenty-two of
Tilda was against it. Thereâd been two murders of homeless people during the time sheâd been on the street, and the police hadnât solved either of them. All theyâd done, as far as she could see, was make comments about the homeless, comments she could describe only as gratuitous. Tilda had no faith in the police.
Rima considered telling Tilda that only sixty percent of all reported murders are ever resolved (as distinct from solved, so Rima wasnât even sure what the statistic meant), but since she didnât know how she knew that and maybe it wasnât even true, she kept her mouth shut. Was sixty percent a lot or way too little? It apparently beat the success rate in other casesârapes, muggings, theftsâall hollow.
Addison was also against making the call. This seemed to her the sort of story that would immediately make it into the paper and onto the Internet, where it would live forever. And not on some little site no one ever visited either; Addison could picture this in the dayâs AOL headlines. If they were willing to post âAirline apologizes to passenger. He couldnât hold it any longer,â then obviously there was nothing too low. Addison had lived much of her adult life faintly convinced that a large segment of the reading public and the entire news industry would be really happy if she died in some bizarre and puzzling way. She said that sheâd put a watch on eBay, and proposed that they all start locking the doors even when someone was home.
They were interrupted by Kenny Sullivan, postman of myth and legend. Addison stepped out onto the walkway to tell him all about it, and Rima heard him promising to spread the word to the neighbors, with utmost discretion, of course. Possibly someone else had seen something.
Then the women sat together, eating the sausages, drinking the tea, and listening to the radio. Addison and Tilda assured Rima many times that none of it was her fault. They repeated this once too often; it lost its credibility.
Rima was amazed. A crime had been committed in the home of a world-famous mystery writer, and as far as she could see, nothing was going to be done to solve it. It occurred to her that she herself was the most likely suspect. A troubled young woman, new to the household, with an unlikely story, and offering only the vaguest description of the perpetrator.
âThe best way to clear yourself,â said Maxwell Lane, âis to find the one whoâs guilty,â and if Rima were a world-famous mystery writer, then surely she would know how to go about doing that. If she were Addison, she would at the very least search Rimaâs room. Really, the only thing that could be said in Rimaâs favor was that she was too obvious.
(2)
Even minus Thomas Grand, Witâs End had no shortage of tiny corpses. Over the next few days Rima found: The Box-Top Murders, poison in the breakfast cereal; One of Us, rattler in the medicine chest; and The Widow Reed, weed whacker in the hedges. The Widow Reed was a particularly grisly dollhouse, bits of tiny gore on the leaves in the garden and on the flagstones of the walkway. Rima was ashamed to remember that this had been one of her favorites among Addisonâs books; she hadnât pictured the body quite so chewed. Addison had the Widow Reed dollhouse in the formal dining room.
What Rima didnât find: the dollhouse for Ice City; the tickets sheâd been given for the leashless dogs; the first page of the onionskin letter.
She had managed to find another onionskin letter that appeared to be from the same woman:
21200 Old Santa Cruz Hwy
Holy City, California 95026
May 4, 1983
Â
Dear Maxwell Lane:
Expect you got my letter of April 20th even though you didnât respond. I meant no insult, hope none was taken. Expect you are just real busy with your crime solving. Me, I feed the cats ( did I mention I have twenty-two of
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