The End of The Road (25 page)

“Got some very interesting news for you,” he told me as he came in, sat down at my table in his usual chair, and nodded when I offered coffee. “Yes, thanks.”

I joined him and settled in to listen, seeing the satisfaction on his face and hearing it in his voice.

“Her real name is Julie Webster and she’s wanted in New York City for breaking and entering—you guess where.”

I thought for a minute before saying, “Well, if I have to guess, I’d say probably John and Marty’s apartment, after she died on nine-eleven and he took off across country, but before his sister followed him.”

“Right on the money,” he told me. “She and John worked in the same office and she was stuck on him. After his wife died in the destruction of the towers, I’d guess she thought she had another chance to fill the hole left in his life. Wasn’t going to happen though and he let her know it. According to people who knew her, his turning her away for the second time infuriated her.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “Given the circumstances, I’ve been thinking about it a lot and that kind of obsession may have come as a result of her rejection and the anger that grew out of her caring for him to begin with, don’t you think? It only makes sense for her to follow him if she could continue to tell herself that she loved him. But she must have killed him because she was angry at his rejection. She must have followed his sister, the real Amy Fletcher, letting her do most of the tracking work. Was this Julie Webster really in love with him?”

Alan agreed. “Obsessed might be a good word. He had dated her, but broke it off when he met Marty. Evidently Webster didn’t take it well at all. Decided to kill them both, but nine-eleven came first for Marty Fletcher.”

I thought for a moment, then half smiled.

“‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’” I reminded him. “And that’s adapted from a play by William Congreve, which reads correctly as: ‘Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, / Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.’”

“Whew!” Then he nodded. “I guess that’s as good a way as any to describe Julie Webster’s anger
and
obsession,” he said slowly. “God save us guys from furious, vengeful women, yes?”

“Don’t be a stranger,” I told him at the door.

“Not a chance. Stay warm. It’s going to snow again.”

He gave me a salute, trotted off to his waiting car, and was gone down the road to the next law enforcement problem.

I went back inside to give Stretch his dinner.

Harriet and Lew were coming for supper.

Lew was bringing the wine and I had made another stew.

They arrived almost together and we sat down to enjoy each other’s company along with the dinner, but first I decided we needed a good toast.

Lifting my glass, I gave them a bit of Thomas Moore that’s appropriate for those of our age:

“Hear! Hear!” said Lew, and we settled to small-town gossip at the end of the road . . . and good friends with whom to share it.