Fred nodded his head, scribbled on his pad, and asked, "You figure the note's a confession, of sorts?"
"Sure. It says, 'I'm going to hell for what I did,' doesn't it? If she didn't try to kill Jerome, why would she kill herself? There's no doubt the note is in Mrs. Shipton's handwriting-even Corday agrees with that. As far as I'm concerned, that wraps it up." Weller sat back and took another chaw from his tuna salad sandwich, brushing a few crumbs from his chin.
"Is the handwriting definitely Edith Shipton's?" Fred asked.
"No doubt about it," Weller answered. "She even used the same fountain pen she used when she registered here at Bird Song, when she signed 'Edith Jones.' And there were papers in her purse in her writing that matched, too." He leaned across the coffee table and reached for Bird Song's guest register, handing it to Dean.
"I thought I was the only one who uses an old-fashioned fountain pen," he said. Cynthia had given him such an instrument at the time the couple signed papers acquiring Bird Song. "Where's the suicide note?"
"Corday has it. He's sending it and the samples of Mrs. Shipton's writing over to CBI in Denver, just to make sure. But it's just a formality. Even he knows she wrote it. He's closing the case, and the open case on her husband's fall as well."
"In spite of Shipton saying 'Dean?'" Dean asked as he fingered the stubble-beard he'd never gotten around to shaving.
"Corday filled me in, at least a bit. According to Corday, Shipton doesn't remember anything about the fall and doesn't even remember saying anything to me at the scene. He's claiming head injury and all that shit...stuff-sorry Miss Turnbull."
"That doesn't answer why Shipton said my name to you."
"My read is he just wanted to cause you some grief after you tried to beat his brains out. Or maybe he honestly thought it was you who cut him loose."
Dean didn't respond but in his mind agreed the answer made a certain amount of sense, giving the situation.
"Come on!" Weller said. "You're off the hook. You came out smelling like a prom queen on her first date. Why are you mopping around like your dog didn't make it across the Interstate?"
"A woman just died on my watch, Jake. And it makes me feel guilty as hell."
"Hey," Weller said, his tone conveyed a surprising note of sympathy. "Stop beating yourself. You weren't her answer. She needed a lot more than you could give her."
"That still doesn't absolve me from feeling like a bastard," Dean muttered.