They took their time over the ice cream, making soup of the last few spoons full, but Dean learned nothing further. He excused himself and asked the owner if he could make a phone card call and did so, but was unsuccessful in reaching Cynthia. When the two returned to Bird Song, Donnie met Martha at the stairs and tugged her up to his and Edith's second floor room. Bird Song was as quiet as an empty church with none of the remaining guests in evidence, nor was there any sign the police had returned. Count your blessings, Dean thought. He wandered back to his office, listening to only silence as he passed Ryland's door.
Dean spent the balance of the afternoon doing bookkeeping for the lodging establishment. Just before five o'clock he went to the kitchen to begin preparing spaghetti for Fred and himself, and Martha, whom they had invited to again stay for supper. He could hear the strains of some lost cowboy lover coming from Fred's room, a sure sign the door to the old man's room was open. Fred O'Connor strolled into the kitchen a few moments later, all smiles, carrying his ever-present notebook.
"You forgot to turn off your radio. The guests will think we're having a hoe-down."
"The kids are listening to it. I'm converting them from that rip-rap stuff."
"You look like you just won 'Wheel of Fortune'," Dean said as he emptied a package of pasta into a boiling pot.
Fred began setting the small kitchen table. "I been busy surfing the web." He had a look that begged to be asked about his success. Instead, Dean changed the subject.
"Is Ryland back?"
"Yeah. He trotted in while you and Martha were out. I ain't heard a peep out of his room since." Then he added with a smile, "Don't suppose little Franny slit his throat, do you?"
"Could be," Dean answered. "Dead bodies don't make much noise." He began to hum a Dave Brubeck piece as he reached for a bottle of virgin olive oil.
"Ain't you going to ask what I found on the net?"
"I figured you'd get around to it. I'm all ears." He put a tray of garlic bread into the oven and the pungent smell of warming cheese filled the room.
"Well," he said, little-kid excited, "I got the real poop on the death of Shipton's son! Believe you me, it weren't easy. First I tried calling that Able Whitehouse guy, but I couldn't get him. Then I looked up the Pinkville newspaper but it was merged into a countywide paper four years ago. I spoke with a nice lady at the new paper but she said all the old records were in some basement. Then I-"