"I've just started writing up my final report. I'll go into as much detail as I can," Dean answered.
She sighed with relief. "Thank you very much."
"If I don't see you next week at the service, it won't be because I didn't try to get there," he added.
By 5:00 Dean was ravenous and, as he was on his own for dinner, stopped at the dining room of a national chain motel for a full meal. What the hell, Visa liked him again. A waitress wearing a lace cap denoting her Pennsylvania Dutch heritage seated him at a small corner table by the window. As it was early in the evening, there were few customers in the room. Three men, at three separate tables, evidently on the road for business, were all dining alone. They reminded Dean of Jeffrey Byrne, doing the same thing a week earlier.
The only exception to the lonely customers was a young family of four, husband, wife, girl about nine and boy about six. They were seated two tables away from Dean and appeared to be celebrating something unusual in an otherwise Spartan life. They were dressed in their best and both children and adults seems perfectly at ease with each other's company, even if they all seemed somewhat in awe of their surroundings. The children, in particular, caught Dean's attention.
The little girl was a beauty: her blond curls were pinned with a bright red ribbon and her white dress had a red sash about the waist. Her smile lit the table and she and her little brother, who was being the perfect gentlemen in his spring suit, were obviously the pride and joy of Ma and Pa.
All four perused the menu judiciously, with father and mother occasionally offering comments and explanations. At one point, the girl dropped her napkin and the boy reached beneath the table, picked it up, and replaced it daintily on her lap. She scowled at him at first, but then understanding the generosity of his evidently out-of-character act, bowed politely in acknowledgment.
The boy discovered something on the menu to his liking and enthusiastically pointed it out to his father. The girl too, smiled and nodded. The father frowned, ever so slightly, and surreptitiously opened his wallet and counted his money. He whispered something to his wife. She too frowned, and then reached for her purse and withdrew an envelope, extracted a bill and slipped the money to her husband.
"A good woman," Monica Cutler had said, "makes all the difference in the world." Suddenly Dean felt incredibly lonely. Just as quickly, a picture of Cynthia Byrne began crowding his mind. He'd be at the service next week and not to see if a missing man would turn up in veiled drag, but simply because Cynthia Byrne told him she'd be pleased with his presence.