There was ample evidence of Cynthia's reluctance to discuss some element of Shipton's accident and Dean was just as reluctant to subject her to police interrogation. He tried to convince himself the reason was the burden she carried with her mother's illness, but deep down, he knew that was only partially true. He hastily dialed Cynthia's mother's number, as Fred stood guard at the slightly opened door. He crossed his fingers that he was ahead of the police, and his wife would be there to answer. Miracle of miracles, Cynthia picked up the phone on the first ring. Dean told her the police wanted to question her. "I had to give them your number," he said, trying to keep his voice low.
"I don't want to talk to them," she answered, the nervousness apparent in her voice. "At least not now. Not yet." Then she added, "I know I'm not being fair, but please, let me do this my way. I haven't had time to even think about it."
He thought a moment. "Don't answer the phone when it rings. When I call, I'll only ring twice. Then I'll do it again, twice. The third time, answer it-it'll be me."
She let out a deep sigh. "Did you give them mother's address?"
"No. But when they can't contact you by phone, they'll come back to me. I'll try to make myself scarce." Dean wondered if his phone might be tapped. While this seemed a bit absurd, the more he thought about being the prime candidate in an attempted murder, with his wife a close second, the more he considered the phone tap a real possibility. Perhaps not yet, but soon.
"I'll use our phone card and call from uptown," he told his wife. After mutual love-you's, he hung up.
Fred suggested the pair speak with Edith, Ryland and the others, but Dean pointed out the difficulty in doing so while Corday continued his interviews in the parlor. Fitzgerald, too, was lurking somewhere about the premises. Besides, the long day had blurred both their minds to the point of uselessness and Fred punctuated every sentence with a yawn. As the mistress of Tara had said, tomorrow is another day.
Dean felt the beginnings of a headache creep along the base of his neck as he tried to concentrate on who, among the cast of characters cloistered snugly in Bird Song, might have been responsible for Jerome Shipton's fall. He admitted none of the mental scenarios circling his tired brain made a lick of sense. He closed his eyes and leaned back his head. Fred, seeing that further discussion was fruitless, excused himself. He was obviously as worn out as Dean, feeling all of his seventy-six years. Dean put out the office light and undressed for bed. As he reached for the bedside lamp, he noticed Annie Quincy's notebook where Cynthia had been working on it. Between Cynthia's and Donnie's efforts, only a few pages of the journal remained undeciphered. As tired as Dean was, he still felt a pang of curiosity about the life of this long-ago prostitute. He picked up the pencil and word key and, stifling a yawn, began to decode the notebook.