Klinger,” I said, sitting in one of the chairs facing her. “Thanks for coming down.”
Dowdy was the best word to describe Jane Klinger. She was worn, used-up. Just gray. I
was probably a good five or six years older than her, and she looked ten years older than me. She’d
survived the war, the camps, a rotten marriage and now she’d lost the only good thing to come
from it all.
She brushed a hand over the closed file folder on the table between us. “I am not a snoop,
Mr. Welles. I was over by the window, looking out, and I happened to see this on your partner’s
desk. To be honest, I did consider reading it. But I did not.”
I nodded slowly. It was clear she wasn’t finished. And I wasn’t ready to begin.
“Of course, I was aware that it was on Mr. Thomas’s desk,” she continued. “And I have
spent the past fifteen minutes wondering why. If you had located MaryAnn, why would you
need Mr. Thomas’s assistance, unless his...kind were involved. And if his kind were involved,
what possible news could you have that would require me come to your office?”
I didn’t say anything.
She smiled. It was a forced smile. “I tried to imagine alternatives. There certainly had to be
other reasons why the file was on Mr. Thomas’s desk. But you see, Mr. Welles, every road my
mind traveled while I waited for you ended in darkness.” She paused and her lips again curled
into that forced smile. “So perhaps you should just tell me why you called me here today.”
I cleared my throat. “There’s no easy way to say this, Mrs. Klinger,” I said softly.
“MaryAnn is dead. I’m sorry.”
Jane Klinger sat motionless for a moment, then nodded slowly. Her chin was still going up
and down when a spasm seemed to ripple through her body. I started to get up, thinking she was
having a seizure of some kind. Then she took a deep, wracking breath and I realized she was
fighting back grief.
“How?” she asked, her voice low.
“Mrs. Klinger . . .” I began, leaning forward.
She shook her head violently from side to side. “No. You tell me. How did my child die?”
I sighed softly. “She was murdered.”
Her eyes locked on mine, she asked, “By . . . those . . . things?”
“I don’t know,” I said, lying. “Probably. But I want you to know that I’m not done with the
case. I want to know who did it as much as you do.”
“More than I do, Mr. Welles,” she said, her voice cracking. “My girl is dead. What else
could matter?”
I didn’t know what to say. I was silent for a moment, then said, “It matters to me.”
She was right on the edge of coming apart. I’d seen it before. And I’m not very good with
hysterical women. I opened my mouth to call for Cynthia when Mrs. Klinger asked, “Where is
MaryAnn now?”
“I had her taken to the Downtown District police station,” I replied. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll
see that she’s taken to the Browne and Poole funeral home for you. If you have another
preference, they’ll be glad to take her wherever you wish.”
She nodded slowly.
“Mrs. Klinger, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about the way things turned out,” I said. “I
can’t imagine how you feel.”
“No,” she said, her body trembling. “You cannot.” She lurched to her feet and looked down
at me, swaying slightly. “Thank you for being straightforward with me, Mr. Welles. I will send
you a check when I receive your final bill.”
I stood. “Is there someone I can call?” I asked. “You really shouldn’t be alone right now.”
She cocked her head to one side, like a bird. “I have been alone most of my life,” she said
calmly. “Thank you for the gracious offer, but I think I should go to St. Bonaventure and
talk with Father McCray.”
McCray wouldn’t have been my first choice. Word was that the priest referred to Vees as
“those who have been kissed by hell’s demons” in his weekly sermons. I didn’t think that was
the kind of thing Mrs. Klinger needed to
Dowdy was the best word to describe Jane Klinger. She was worn, used-up. Just gray. I
was probably a good five or six years older than her, and she looked ten years older than me. She’d
survived the war, the camps, a rotten marriage and now she’d lost the only good thing to come
from it all.
She brushed a hand over the closed file folder on the table between us. “I am not a snoop,
Mr. Welles. I was over by the window, looking out, and I happened to see this on your partner’s
desk. To be honest, I did consider reading it. But I did not.”
I nodded slowly. It was clear she wasn’t finished. And I wasn’t ready to begin.
“Of course, I was aware that it was on Mr. Thomas’s desk,” she continued. “And I have
spent the past fifteen minutes wondering why. If you had located MaryAnn, why would you
need Mr. Thomas’s assistance, unless his...kind were involved. And if his kind were involved,
what possible news could you have that would require me come to your office?”
I didn’t say anything.
She smiled. It was a forced smile. “I tried to imagine alternatives. There certainly had to be
other reasons why the file was on Mr. Thomas’s desk. But you see, Mr. Welles, every road my
mind traveled while I waited for you ended in darkness.” She paused and her lips again curled
into that forced smile. “So perhaps you should just tell me why you called me here today.”
I cleared my throat. “There’s no easy way to say this, Mrs. Klinger,” I said softly.
“MaryAnn is dead. I’m sorry.”
Jane Klinger sat motionless for a moment, then nodded slowly. Her chin was still going up
and down when a spasm seemed to ripple through her body. I started to get up, thinking she was
having a seizure of some kind. Then she took a deep, wracking breath and I realized she was
fighting back grief.
“How?” she asked, her voice low.
“Mrs. Klinger . . .” I began, leaning forward.
She shook her head violently from side to side. “No. You tell me. How did my child die?”
I sighed softly. “She was murdered.”
Her eyes locked on mine, she asked, “By . . . those . . . things?”
“I don’t know,” I said, lying. “Probably. But I want you to know that I’m not done with the
case. I want to know who did it as much as you do.”
“More than I do, Mr. Welles,” she said, her voice cracking. “My girl is dead. What else
could matter?”
I didn’t know what to say. I was silent for a moment, then said, “It matters to me.”
She was right on the edge of coming apart. I’d seen it before. And I’m not very good with
hysterical women. I opened my mouth to call for Cynthia when Mrs. Klinger asked, “Where is
MaryAnn now?”
“I had her taken to the Downtown District police station,” I replied. “If you’ll allow me, I’ll
see that she’s taken to the Browne and Poole funeral home for you. If you have another
preference, they’ll be glad to take her wherever you wish.”
She nodded slowly.
“Mrs. Klinger, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about the way things turned out,” I said. “I
can’t imagine how you feel.”
“No,” she said, her body trembling. “You cannot.” She lurched to her feet and looked down
at me, swaying slightly. “Thank you for being straightforward with me, Mr. Welles. I will send
you a check when I receive your final bill.”
I stood. “Is there someone I can call?” I asked. “You really shouldn’t be alone right now.”
She cocked her head to one side, like a bird. “I have been alone most of my life,” she said
calmly. “Thank you for the gracious offer, but I think I should go to St. Bonaventure and
talk with Father McCray.”
McCray wouldn’t have been my first choice. Word was that the priest referred to Vees as
“those who have been kissed by hell’s demons” in his weekly sermons. I didn’t think that was
the kind of thing Mrs. Klinger needed to
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