He laughed, half-aloud. "Listen," Dean said. "Right now I don't give a damn about what happened a century ago and I'm in no position to make judgments of a situation I know so little about. I care even less if your brother writes Saint Among the Sinners or Sinner Among the Saints."
Claire Quincy turned and stared at him, as if waiting for the quid pro quo of an if-you-don't-tell, I-won't-tell agreement of some sort. That was a game Dean had no intention of playing and the silence draped the room like a spring fog.
Claire tried to muster a schoolmarm firmness that didn't work. "I want assurances from you and that horrid old Mr. O'Connor that the integrity of my family name will not be stained with unproven lies! Mrs. Martin did much good and she deserves to be honored for it. My brother's book will give her the credit she so richly deserves." It sounded, as Dean didn't doubt it was, like a well-rehearsed speech.
"Get out of here," was all Dean answered. He was in no mood to argue against Claire Quincy's selfish interests in preserving the strained moral reputation of the long-dead ancestor. He turned toward the wall and, after what seemed like minutes, heard the bedroom door close.
It was hunger that later returned Dean to reality. A little after noon he emerged from his room. Corday and Fitzgerald were gone. The only representative of officialdom remaining on premises, in even a semi-official capacity, was Sheriff Jake Weller. He was holding court with Fred O'Connor in the parlor, a plate of potato chips and a tuna salad sandwich on his ample lap. Gladys Turnbull was the only visible guest. She was wedged into a corner chair with one hand in a bag of cookies while the other took notes. Dean wondered if her throat was sore after her pre-dawn glass-breaking scream upon first seeing Edith Shipton's body slowly turning from the end of the sash. Dean had tried to telephone Cynthia once more with no luck. He fixed himself a cheese sandwich and joined the parlor confab.
Fred looked up from his notes and answered Dean's unasked question. "The Quincys are off somewhere and Franny and Donald took Donnie to a motel. They're going back to Grand Junction tonight."
"Thanks for doing all the chores," Dean mumbled. Fred acknowledged with a nod.
Gladys just smiled and munched, and munched. Weller took another bite of his sandwich, waved Dean to a seat as if he were the host, and continued with his discourse.
"The way I figure it, Edith took the knife the night when she first tried on the dress. We can't say if she planned on killing him with it or was just protecting herself but later she used it to cut his line. Like the note says." He sat back with a hint of smugness.