Tares Among the Wheat Volume One

By H. Melvin James

Superstition, mysticism, and religion weave like tangled vines through the tales of Amelia’s newly discovered ancestry. As a widow struggling to sustain herself and her ten-year-old son, Amy’s modest life is tragically disrupted when a dubious lawyer determines her late mother, adopted at birth, was the estranged daughter of the recently deceased Lexington McClary. Although the net worth of the once enormous estate is petty, Amy decides to travel several hundred miles to attend the funeral, in the hope of at least learning a semblance of her newfound ancestry.

After the interment, alone in the secluded rural cemetery, Amy trips and bashes her head against a tombstone, suffering a coma and complications requiring medical care and convalescence for several months. While precariously recovering, Amy is visited in the depth of nights by a mysterious woman who tells stories of Amy’s maternal grandparents, their families, and acquaintances. The tales of her ancestors reach back nearly a century and include their immigration from Ireland to New York City and their migration westward to Indian Territory.

Poignant remembrances of her own life and the altered world into which she regains consciousness portray the unconquerable but elusive human spirit, confronting failure in the wake of triumph, tragedy dispelling romance, madness shaming war of its glory, and the cruelty of murder in defiance of reason.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9781633389670

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Tares Among the Wheat

H. Melvin James

Copyright © 2019 H. Melvin James

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books, Inc.

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2019

ISBN 978-1-63338-927-4 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63338-992-2 (Hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-63338-967-0 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

To the late Juanita Faye Kassik, a gifted poet and talented storyteller, whom common fate denied introduction and deserved literary acclaim.

Acknowledgments

Having earned my sincere gratitude are three lovely ladies who offered their opinions and advice on this novel, my beloved wife, Diane, for critiquing the work in progress; my beautiful daughter, Lonna, who diligently read through the rough first drafts of each chapter, even as changes were being made to the story lines; and Christa, our delightful acquaintance on a transatlantic voyage, who graciously agreed to read the entire unedited manuscript and provide her honest impressions.

For granting me confidence to write, two devoted teachers of English literature are particularly dear to my appreciation, regrettably, however, belated now by decades. They were my endearing high school English teacher, the late Mabel McFarland, who gave me more praise than I deserved, and a dedicated college professor of English literature, Samuel H. Woods Jr., who inspired me more than he could have known.

By my appreciation of these two teachers, expressed too late in life for them to know, I hope teachers of all disciplines at all levels of education realize that they invariably instill more confidence and inspiration in their students than they perceive and gain more gratitude than most students will ever express.

Introduction

This is the first volume of a two-volume novel that includes two interrelated story lines. Neither volume stands alone. Volume one introduces the story lines, develops the characters, and builds the plots. The first volume ultimately requires the second volume to bring both story lines to adequate conclusion.

Throughout this novel the two interrelated story lines progress intermittently. Curiosities, mysteries, challenges, and adventures arise throughout the story lines, some resolved in the course of the stories and others not resolved until the final chapters of volume two.

Absent of the first volume, the conclusions, revelations, discoveries, and disclosures of the second volume would be much less understood and appreciated.

Chapter 1

Journey of the Wind

Kneeling beside the modest monument, a headstone selected to befit the small body buried deep beneath its shadow, the calloused veteran of the Vietnam War had just compared his scribbled notes to the chiseled epitaph. Having arrived at the disappointing conclusion of his investigation, he closed his dime-store pocket notebook and crowded it into the breast pocket of his rumpled shirt, next to a nearly empty pack of unfiltered Lucky Strike cigarettes. Just as he began to stand, an uncanny sensation gave him warning; someone had crept up behind him.

The consequence of the private investigator’s encounter with a peculiar stranger on that early autumn day was destined to disrupt the ordinary lives of a dozen unsuspecting mortal souls. Several hundred miles’ distance from that graveyard and seven days later, in the hour past midnight, the first subject of altered fate, Amelia Meade, struggled against sleeplessness.

Damn the wind! The gruff voice from the adjoining hotel room rumbled resonant through the hollow wall of plastered laths. The stillness of the late-night hour having been abruptly disturbed, Amelia sat motionless on the edge of the bed, listening for another utterance. Seconds later she heard the distinctive sound of a window sash slam angrily against the sill, then nothing more. She mused of the coincidence, for she had just begun to read about the wind when the shouted curse interrupted. She returned to her reading, When He uttereth His voice, there is a multitude of waters in the heavens, and He causeth the vapours to ascend from the ends of the earth; He maketh lightnings with rain, and bringeth forth the wind out of His treasures.

She whispered the words in her mind’s voice, words of a verse she had arbitrarily pressed her fingertip upon within the leafed pages of the Gideon’s Bible. Only a moment earlier, she had discovered the book nestled in the small single drawer of the bedside table, humbly sharing the compartment with the modest local telephone directory.

Amy had sought to distract her restless mind by suggesting thoughts far removed from herself. Weary but unable to sleep, she was pleased with herself for arriving at the idea. She would simply ponder the deepest meaning of whatever verse her bleary eyes first focused upon. Reconsidering the verse, she vaguely imagined God on his throne, summoning the wind to his bidding. Then she considered such a spirit, one granted the power to control the wind, from gentle breeze to mighty hurricane. Consciously entertaining fanciful thoughts, as if to contrive a fairy tale to help her sleep, Amy imagined the spirit of the wind. Such a spirit would be wild and restless, sometimes disobedient and viciously destructive, but at other times tenderly soothing, like a rambunctious but adorable child.

Believing she might drift to sleep with her head filled with winsome fantasy, Amy returned the Bible to the small drawer. As she shoved the drawer closed, the woodwork, old and dry, groaned in protest, sounding like a sleeping dog complaining of being disturbed. Having then a notion that fresh air might also aid her sleep, she opened her room’s single window, but no zephyr stirred.

Satisfied with her newly arranged preparations for sleep, Amy switched off the lamp and snuggled beneath the bedcovers. Her inquisitive reaction to the sounds next door sparked a memory of an admonishment by her friend, Beatrice, some years ago, Amy, do you realize that you habitually analyze every ordinary happenstance as if it was a clue toward solving a mystery? Will you ever outgrow your childhood obsession with your favorite characters of fiction, Nancy Drew and Ms. Marple?

The thought gave Amy a dash of comfort. She then tried to train her thoughts to dwell on her home, her son, and her friend Beatrice, but the scenes slipped away, like photographs floating in floodwaters. Soon sleep fell upon her, but the transition did not bring the tranquility she anticipated, for curious cluttered dreams ensued.

From the darkness whelming her sleep, a voice startled the void, Heed my words, peevish child! Then followed three seconds of time, marked only by Amy’s arrested gasp of breath, before the voice returned. I beseech you. Command your vexing mind to still itself and silence its retort. Demand your incessant reasoning to abandon its dubious disposition. Then the voice silenced, as if choreographed to yield on cue to allow a gentle breeze to sweep the scene. The waft caressed Amy’s face as softly as its susurrous sound. Her dreamed surroundings faded in view, like the first tantalizing scene of a classic motion picture displayed on a huge silver screen. The vista before her was a bucolic setting at twilight. She stood isolated and alone on a gray prairie confronting a dark forest. It was not the fairy-tale dream she wanted.

In the wake of retreating sunlight, cool air began to stir. The soft airflow kissed Amelia’s face and whispered to her, a subdued sibilance, out of which the commanding voice reemerged. Listen closely. I will conjure to your hearing melodious and mournful sounds dredged from the depths of time. Behold, the sounds materialize in the form of their creation.

Amelia was helplessly aware of being ushered into a frightening dream, as vulnerable as a child caught in the currents of a rushing river. The hypnotic power of the offstage speaker’s will enormously overwhelmed her disposition to resist. As the defenses of her conscious mind withdrew, the last sentinel of her inherent reason warned in a waning whisper as he, too, reluctantly retreated, Beware, Amelia, the source of this dream is alien and delusive. The approaching dream maker bodes danger. This spirit is not of your familiar company of fantasy, romantics, and harmless maniacs.

Again, the spirit’s voice pervaded the surreal world that engulfed Amelia in her dream. "I am the steward of earth’s atmosphere. Since the dawn of time I have dutifully conducted earth’s envelope of air, its every raging storm, delicate breeze, and resonant reverberation, from whisper to explosion.

"Of my many chores, I harbor this world’s infinite symphony of sound. Many sounds I hoard solely for my own amusement, the whimpers of man and the rages of beast, the tumultuous roars of storming seas, and the explosions of volcanic eruptions. Many other sounds I stash away, dutiful to his holy command, without fail or misconstrue.

"From scores of centuries to scant seconds past, I can cause to again be heard, the infinity of sounds spilled into this world, resounding thunder and trickling brook, a mother’s soft song to her baby, a wolf’s sorrowful howl, and a doomed hunter’s wail as it drowns in the whine of wintry blizzard wind.

In my cache are kept a trove of every uttered word, of truth and lie, of love and hate, and of prayer and curse. But not a wicked utterance may I abide, of that repented unto my Lord.

Again, the ominous voice paused, and again Amelia had no sense she was expected to respond. She could not have spoken if asked. Her dreamed character was as frozen as a mouse backed against a wall and facing a venomous pit viper. Rather, the quiet moment seemed to allow the spirit to assess Amy’s heart and appraise her mind, thus to ensure its influence had overwhelmed her.

The voice again shattered the pervasive silence, "Come the age of reckoning, my prowess will be unveiled. I will then be commanded to summon the hordes of my collections of sounds to bear indisputable witness. Thus so, faithful and obedient, I resourcefully stow away every sound of evidence, the condemning and the redeeming.

Here and there I tuck cries of misery and shouts of glory, in canyon crevasses, amid dense forests, and folded within the rustling currents of mountain winds. I move them about from one dispensed ocean wave to the next and from the gales of howling storms, back again into respite. These reverberations mortals hear every day, indistinguishably merged into the sounds of nature, from restful hiss to raucous roar.

In confused contrast, there came intermittent movements of music and chorus in song. Amy heard and saw the ghostly images of a child chanting a nursery rhyme and a young man serenading a lovely young maiden. The scene of innocent romance restored her frightened heart from the nightmare’s earlier horror and caused her face to draw a smile as she slept. But then came an explosion, instantly obliterating the murky images and their enchanting sounds.

Startled, Amy awoke abruptly in the same instant her involuntary reactions sat her up in the bed and turned her head to face the threat. She and her frightened heart were relieved to find she was confronted only by a strong breeze through the open window. Instinct had keenly alerted her senses and tensed her muscles. Her heart was racing, fueled with adrenaline and readied for reaction, but only quiescence ensued.

Amy’s room was faintly illuminated by the glow of streetlights spilling over the rooftop of the adjacent single-story building and into her window. Undulating waves of cool air seethed through the window screen and buffeted her face. Mimicking the wafture of a ballerina’s arms, long white lace curtains stroked the inrushing currents, creating a ghostly figure that appeared to reach menacingly toward her.

In the heart-stopped moment that awoke her, Amy soon surmised the floundering curtains had gathered the wind against a tall slender vase of flowers on the bedside table. Like a ship’s sail bloused by wind, the collected force was amplified until the restricting floral arrangement toppled. As the rush of fear quickly settled to reality, Amy rose on her still-quivering legs, closed the window, and set the vase upright. The stems of the bouquet remained in the throat of the vase, but a handful of water had spilled onto the tablecloth. Amy set the vase on the hardwood floor and removed the tablecloth. She retrieved a towel from the toilet, blotted the tablecloth, and wiped the top of the small table. Then she draped the towel over the dormant cast-iron radiator and placed the tablecloth upon it, there to dry until morning. Amy hoped there would be no water stains. Upon being ushered into the room on the day before, by Mrs. Mielke, the hotel’s proprietor, she had appreciated the matching Battenberg lace tablecloth and curtains, much as she had also admired a number of other attributes of the quaint hotel’s decor.

Before crawling back into bed, Amy drew her wristwatch from the top of the dresser to check the time. It was almost four in the morning. When she last consulted her watch, it was one thirty in the morning. She blamed herself for the lack of sleep. Amy dreaded the day ahead. She feared having the appearance of a zombie character in a B movie, and she dreaded feeling drowsy and dull. However, she managed to dismiss much of her regret with a redeeming realization; after she departed for home the next morning she would not likely ever see anyone she met in the remote prairie town known as Rogersville.

Amy had first gone to bed at a quarter to eleven, but had difficulty going to sleep. Being alone in a strange environment and having drank too many cups of coffee and tea, she had remained awake until she last checked the time after getting up to pee, a second annoying resultant of several late-evening caffeine drinks. It was in that late hour she had consulted the Gideon’s Bible.

Now it was yet too early to get up, so she turned off the table lamp and spent the next two hours thrashing in the bed. Her thoughts meandered aimlessly through a litany of fond remembrances and fearful tribulations as she tossed and turned in her bed, waiting to discern morning’s glow.

Predictably, by midafternoon of the day following her restless night, Amy grew drowsy as she sat in a chapel, listless and bored, as an inattentive member of a small apathetic gathering. Urges to drift to sleep seemed overpowering. She thought whimsically, I had been depriving myself of sleep and rest, even before the startling revelations of my estranged grandfather and the exhausting travel here, which I should have declined. I feel as if I could only be allowed to sleep now. I could slumber for nine months, like a babe in the womb. I wish I could be allowed to sleep that long. As she continued drifting in drowsiness, Amy recalled her mother’s scolding for any overheard silly wishes. Be wary of what your wish. For if a wish is a mocking prayer, then a frivolous wish might tempt the Lord. Then, reminiscing of her comfortable carefree childhood, Amy could no longer resist the temptation. Her weariness, her detached status from the congregation, and the monotone voice of the lecturer consorted to lure her to doze. As her eyelids closed, her head dropped and her chin tucked itself into the deep ruffles of her blouse.

Seconds later, with sudden involuntary reaction, Amy gasped aloud. Simultaneously, her spine quivered and jolted her head, tipping it toward her left shoulder. Embarrassed by her uncontrolled and awkward reaction, she stiffened her back and resumed her composure.

Until this point Amy had been a model of grace and poise. These and other of her features were in those moments, being keenly admired, albeit in licentious manner, by a local attorney, Ralph Hagget. The pasty-skinned pudgy man, sporting a glossy bald crown, sat observing her from across the aisle and three pews behind.

Amy, and to a lesser extent others of the congregation, had just then been startled by the intrusion of a maverick gust of icy wind. Prelude to winter’s southward advance, the gale had inexplicably irrupted from an otherwise tranquil afternoon of late October. The pulse of Arctic air abruptly rammed the pair of entrance doors to open inward, banging them loudly in unison against the vestibule walls. Nuzzled by the entrance passage, the blast of chilled air then jettisoned down the chapel’s center aisle. As the air raced forward it gathered a concoction of dust from the floor, and scraps of papers lifted from the pockets of the pews to mix with the colorful curled autumn leaves ushered indoors from their respite corners of the front porch.

As the cold blast buffeted against the knee-high podium its turbulence toppled a woven straw basket of freshly cut flowers and spread them artfully beneath the drab black casket, producing an arced palette of color against dusty dull floorboards. With its expiring breath, the wind’s tail sent the empty flower basket cartwheeling, depositing it to rest at the feet of the speaker, Reverend DuBois. The disruption halted his confabulation in mid sentence and left him looking dumbfounded.

As soon as the air blast ended, the building reacted as Sir Isaac Newton prescribed. It exhaled its bloat of force-fed atmosphere, back out through the doorway from whence it came. As the building decompressed, the wall timbers and ceiling joists creaked in protest, and then the beams resumed their slumber. The comparatively timid exhalation, however, only partially re-closed the tandem entrance doors, leaving them creaking eerily against their rusty reluctant hinges. All else was silence.

Mrs. Thayer had been the last to arrive. Attempting to enter quietly, she had failed to fully engage the decades-worn latches. Now, voluntarily accepting the chore, the frail silver-headed elder woman rose gracefully from her seat near the back, hastily approached, and closed the doors. Distinct metallic clanks assured the congregation the bolts were now set with certainty. Then, with six quick clicks of heels to hardwood, she regained her isolated seat. For a moment following, the sanctuary was again awkwardly silent until throats began meekly to growl themselves clear and aching posteriors stirred against the hard oak benches.

The distraction of the wind had interrupted Ralph Hagget’s lewd indulgence, which was, as he defined it to himself, a detailed visual appraisal of the young widow’s fine feminine qualities. The lawyer had summarily concluded Amelia was both smartly and attractively dressed. Certainly, the wardrobe was not expensive. He reasoned, however, as superbly as she modeled her garments, any finery would have been of little significance to his lustful perspective.

Earlier, before the funeral commenced, from across the room he had meticulously scrutinized her every detail. He had visually traced the geometry of her black skirt, beginning just below her knees, then upward as it gently expanded to blend into the curvature of her thighs, and higher as it sensually transitioned into her perfectly proportioned hips. His trace of this line concluded slightly above the apex of the hip where the curvature disappeared under the flared bottom of her matching black jacket.

Her contour, he reflected, was as geometrically exquisite as the instrument dubbed the French curve, of an architect’s drafting templates. Then continuing his inspection of the subject’s torso, he observed the jacket’s fine tailoring, artfully emphasizing the taper of her waist and the delicate concave of her lower back, which angled up to meet the perfect posture of her squared shoulders.

With delight Hagget recalled glimpses of his subject from moments earlier. At the front of her jacket three large ebony buttons clutched the material taut around her lower trunk. There, the underside lobes of her breasts distinctively formed the material on either side of the upper button. From that top fastener, wide lapels flared up, outward, and apart, framing an exquisite pale blue blouse, blossoming in ruffles and lace in the manner of a bundle of chrysanthemums overwhelming their basket. He imagined plump bare breasts nestled there beneath the layers of garments.

Having regained her composure, Amy felt about her hairdo to ensure the rolls and tucks had remained intact. Beatrice, her close friend since childhood and now, as she had bragged, an accomplished cosmetologist, taught Amy the art of beautifying one’s self, applying makeup and styling hair, without assistance. Bea at times remarked of Amy’s magnificent hair and enviable complexion, claiming her attributes denied a beautician the opportunity to accomplish dramatic improvements, as Bea boasted to be her talent, albeit most applicable to her unfortunate homely clientele. Nevertheless, Beatrice admitted, it was a rare treat to work with such a natural cover girl as my very best friend.

When Amelia informed her best friend of her appointed journey, to travel by a Greyhound bus to a small town in northwest Oklahoma, Beatrice was inquisitive. Learning that Amy would be attending the reading of the will and then the funeral of her purported maternal grandfather, Bea insisted Amy’s ten-year-old son, Stuart, should remain in Saint Louis with her. This way, Bea reasoned aloud, he won’t fall behind in his schoolwork, he won’t have to sit through a morbid funeral, and—she emphasized and—at long last, you can be on your own for a few days to pursue adventure, or maybe, she then pronounced melodramatically, romance? Amy recalled how Beatrice had grinned and winked to punctuate the exaggerated final word.

Bea had frequently chided Amy about having respectfully played the part of the frigid widow quite long enough. Bea had argued, It’s time for you to consider, and occasionally accept, some of the many overtures you receive from attractive eligible men. And if you insist on re-embarking into a conventional courtship, then why not begin meekly with an innocent dinner date. Then, if the first date sparks any interest, allow a second date to include a movie. By the third date, if you haven’t frightened the man away, like a mouse in a fox den, you should feel brave enough to go dancing. Amy girl! At least accept an invitation to a boring and totally unromantic afternoon at a Cardinals’ baseball game, for heaven’s sake! Recalling the moment gave Amy an involuntary smile. Then, feeling self-conscious, she quickly reassumed a sober expression, one more befitting the solemn occasion of last rites.

From her seat in the front right pew, Amelia turned to glance at the several persons scattered about the small church. As she caught Mr. Hagget’s stare his indecorous grin faded faster than he could train his eyes away. Upon their first meeting, as he had then apologetically excused, he was staring at her only because he was startled by her remarkable resemblance to her grandmother. But as Amy noticed with disgust, his eyes were not trained on her face, but on her breasts.

Amelia reluctantly accepted her position of lineage in the McClary clan, but with reservation. She would realize only a pittance from an inheritance, if any monetary amount at all, but she could accept that. However, as next of kin and sole surviving adult descendant, she feared being saddled with funeral costs and any unresolved debts of her insolvent grandfather.

As a low-income widow with a growing child, it was essential for Amy to carefully manage every dollar she earned to ensure her and her son’s basic needs, food, clothing, and shelter, and occasionally find a few extra dollars for a rare treat or outing. Amy hoped the uncanny affair of her estranged grandfather’s passing would not complicate and trouble her meager and precarious financial status or her fragile but hopeful emotional state. She felt incapable of enduring any more heartache, responsibility, or toil above her current burden. She toyed with the notion, but almost seriously, of her predicament being equivalent to the proverbial beast of burden. She was consciously aware of the load she bore, and she feared one more straw could indeed prove fatal.

As Mr. Hagget had explained to Amelia, seated in her living room only a week earlier, the critically ailing Lexington McClary had given him urgent dispatch. His duty was to, locate and report on the McClary’s lost daughter, living or dead, and any of her children or grandchildren, living or dead. There had been several previous investigative attempts over many years, but all had failed. With no expense spared, some among the various private investigators and independent lawyers had gleaned weeks and months of easy meal tickets through their half-hearted and sometimes inept routines.

More recently, increasing flexibility in the privacy laws had wedged open traditionally inaccessible office doors and file cabinet drawers. Concurrently, the increased popularity of genealogy research had plotted and posted generations of previously obscure family lineage. Thus, at long last, the lifelong quest of the now aged and ailing Lexington McClary had become feasible.

On the day Attorney Hagget first met with Amelia at her home in Saint Louis, the shadow of death was already at the foot of Lexington McClary’s bed. Amy resented the lawyer for not informing the dying old man that two of his descendants, a granddaughter and a great-grandson, at long last were located. After all the years and money devoted to the quest, to deny a dying man joyful news seemed a cruelly compounded tragedy.

Amy first learned of the McClary family when she received a visitor, private investigator Mr. Vince Teague. During that conversation, the PI told Amy that her estranged grandfather had little time to live. He expressed his urgency to confirm her as a McClary descendant, a fact of which he was certain, then complete the formal report of his investigations, assemble his collection of evidence, and finally prod skeptical Mr. Hagget to inform their client of the triumphant and happy findings.

Five days later, after arriving in Rogersville, Amy asked Attorney Hagget if her grandfather had been informed of his granddaughter and great-grandson. He gave her a dispassionate and disappointing reply. Acting responsibly, I was determined to never inform Mr. McClary of any subjects we had tracked down until I could absolutely validate the person or persons. On one occasion in the past, my predecessor and law firm partner reported likely subjects, only to greatly upset Mr. McClary when further investigation proved they clearly were not descendants. By the time I had ascertained you to be genuine, the old man was in the throes of death. I believed he was then too incoherent to be informed.

Ralph Hagget imagined himself to be an exceptionally clever and cunning professional. Any measure of such traits of his character, however, seemed only to manifest in serving his monetary greed or his imagined sexual prowess. In the case of Amelia’s investigation, success sprang indirectly from the recommendation of a Saint Louis municipal court judge. Thereby Hagget only incidentally happened to hire a capable private investigator, Mr. Vince Teague, as the judge had advised. It was Vince who essentially connected each node of information to the next until he arrived at Amelia’s doorstep.

On Vince’s lead, Hagget prepared draft warrants and letters of requests for information. On more than one occasion, the documents, delivered by hand, served more as excuses for Vince to call on certain offices than they proved productive in themselves. Control of office files and ledgers was most often found in the charge of scrutinizing secretaries and regimental file clerks, and those administrators most often wore skirts. Despite the degree of a lady’s disciplined adherence to office policy and regardless of her age, appearance, or marital status, the suave Vince Teague was adept at charming and acquiring from each at least enough information to gain the next clue.

Mr. Hagget contracted Vince Teague at a daily rate plus expenses. The lawyer then liberally marked up both accounts into his own invoices, which he presented to his suffering and faintly cognizant client, Lexington McClary, to approve for payment.

Over the previous two decades, Ralph Hagget had bilked the remains of the once lucrative McClary estate, liberally charging for time and expenses associated with the search for McClary heirs. Those over and above invoices were in addition to his monthly retainer and hourly rate for routine legal work for the McClary estate. As Lexington McClary’s life waned in concert with the value of his net worth, the lackluster lawyer planned and proceeded to bleed the last remaining funds from the estate’s bank accounts, whether or not the final search mission reached a conclusion and regardless of its success.

Hagget had acquired the McClary account following the death of his senior law partner, the elderly Ben Duncan. The office’s legal secretary, Margaret Bowman, had discovered Ben’s cold corpse early one morning, seated stiffly behind his desk in his huge leather chair, fountain pen still in hand. No sooner was the body taken away before Ralph began triumphantly moving himself into the larger front office. Without regard for Duncan’s widowed wife, Hagget summarily filed documents and affirmed claim to any and all rights and ownership as the sole surviving business partner. His spoils included the big leather chair and the ten-carat gold fountain pen he had pried from Ben’s cold fingers before the undertaker arrived at the offices.

In Ralph Hagget’s opinion, all research of records, dispositions, and interviews aside, the stunning resemblance of the three generations of women, Dorine, Trudy, and Amelia, past to present, was the crownpiece of evidence legitimizing Amelia’s inheritance, meager as those remnants appeared to be. Extracted from Vince Teague’s comprehensive report file, Hagget had pondered over the photographs of the three women. Their photographs, particularly those taken at similar ages in their lives, displayed extraordinary resemblance. Ralph rationalized such desirable traits of beauty surely must have been destined to persevere from prehistoric times, passing triumphal from one generation to the next. In his learned opinion, it was simply Darwinian preservation of the fittest, assuring survival, since, according to his own assessment, such refined beauty would exact the most advantageous and desirable mate, thus to perpetuate those superior genes in the feminine gender offspring of succeeding generations.

Continuing her glancing consideration of each person at the funeral service, with her head turned over her left shoulder, at the edge of her peripheral vision, Amelia glimpsed a person she had not previously spotted among the small funeral congregation. Amy’s view of the person was confounded by more than distortion at the periphery, for in the sky high above, the sun danced frantically with the passing clouds. Shards of the parsed sunlight pierced the chapel’s stained glass windows, producing flickering splashes of color which were even more pronounced in the dark back corners of the church. There in the dim of dancing colorful beams of light, standing alone and against the wall at the rear left corner of the sanctuary, Amy discerned a small-framed woman of dark complexion. As if engaged in a religious trance, the odd woman stood frozen, one hand outstretched atop the other on her chest, eyes fixed in a stare toward the altar. In the one quick glance Amelia’s keen perception had noted the woman’s blue-black full-length dress, trimmed richly in glossy black embroidery. She wore a black shawl that framed her face, crossed at her throat, and draped back over her shoulders. Her appearance suggested that of a distant culture of a bygone era, perhaps Eastern European in the late nineteenth century. Amy allowed graciously that the odd wardrobe appeared suitable for the petite woman of stark features and it particularly befit the orthodox occasion.

Returning her attention to the funeral service, Amy noticed the pastor had nudged the empty flower basket behind his heels and was now stammering to regather his thoughts and resume his speech. And, and Jesus answered, the field is the world; the good seed are the children of the kingdom; but the tares are the children of the wicked one. The preacher glanced up from his Bible to gauge his congregation’s attention. Then he continued with his folksy accent, Friends, I believe the message is clear. Just like the plants of the farmer’s fields, when it is time for the Lord to harvest our souls, the tares will be separated from the wheat and the tares will be cast into the lake of fire.

Since the congregation was small and, apparently, in an attempt to seem more personable to the sole family member present, the preacher had, at the beginning of the service, stepped down from the podium to address Amelia in particular, and the gathering in general, in a less formal fashion.

Now, as he droned on with predictable verse, Amelia again pondered the curious woman standing alone in the shadows at the rear of the church. Amy purposely arrived early. She was greeted by the pastor, his wife, and the undertaker. Sitting alone in the pews, she then scrutinized each person entering the church, and except for the officiators and those few she had met the previous day, she had speculated the manner in which each may have known her grandfather. Continuing her analysis, if only to entertain herself, Amy wondered if the small dark woman had entered late, perhaps after the service began, thereby explaining why she was not seen earlier.

Amy reasoned that the stranger could not have entered the church in accompaniment with the wind blast because the disruption caused herself and everyone in the congregation to immediately look toward the open doorway. Further, Amy surmised, the curious little lady could not have so quickly entered the church and taken a stance so far from the doorway just as the wind rushed in and everyone turned to look. Conclusively, Mrs. Thayer was the last to arrive. Amy watched her turn and close the door, gently and quietly, upon entering. No one entered with her, and there was no one standing at the back wall at the time.

Amelia retraced her memory and her recall of scenes. She was a careful observer of her world. Amy’s pondering sparked a memory from her childhood. She recalled her mother’s remarks vividly, but not verbatim, Amy, you have read so many episodes, or should I say escapades, of Nancy Drew, Agatha Christie, and other sleuths, you will surely grow up with no other ambition than to become a police detective, or perhaps a writer of such mysteries.

After the brief fond remembrance, Amy continued her temporary pastime of analyzing the presence of the quaint but mysterious stranger. Amy recollected, following Mrs. Thayer’s entrance, the door had remained closed until the wind gust intruded. The creaking door hinges would not have allowed the door to be opened quietly in the meantime. Thus, no one else entered through the main doors. The only other door was in front to the left of the podium. Perhaps then, Amy tried to conclude, the dark woman had been quietly standing there from before the time she arrived. Contradicting a different scenario, Amy deduced, if the lady had arrived before services began it was rude for no one to have introduced her. It was also peculiar that the woman had not mingled with others and did not introduce herself to Amy. There was one last curious factor: the woman was standing alone at the back of the church while rows of pews sat vacant.

Abandoning any pretense of being attentive to the speaker, Amelia redirected her view to those seated across the aisle to her left. She confirmed her first impression of the man seated on the opposite front pew, nearest to her. Indeed, he was nicely dressed, polite, and ruggedly handsome. Still quietly entertaining herself, to avoid the embarrassment of dozing to sleep again, she considered each of the man’s observed traits, one at a time. She acknowledged to herself that she saw him as dashing, interesting, sexually attractive! She obliterated her thoughts as quickly as they had surprised her. A sensation she had not felt since her husband’s death had risen from her neck and engulfed her cheeks.

Intentionally reconsidering the attractive man as abstractly as she could manage, Amy recalled her first sight of him only a fraction of an hour earlier. She had watched him enter the church, escorting a feeble elderly couple through the doors and down the aisle, one on each arm. She noticed his apparent strength, effortlessly supporting the two elders. Again, she had to forbid her thoughts from venturing further speculation of the handsome stranger’s physique. She recalled the man and the two elders stepping up to her. The man graciously nodded and greeted her with a strong confident voice. He offered his sympathy with sincerity, and then he introduced his parents, Hope and Daniel Covington. Finally, he introduced himself with a nod. Clifton Covington, but you may call me Cliff, if you please.

Amelia studied the young Mr. Covington during the ensuing conversation. She estimated his age to be about thirty, within a year or two of her own. He considerately told her, as if to convey some comfort to her, that his mother and father were the nearest of friends to both of your grandparents, Lex and Dorine McClary. There was a hint of affection in his pronouncing the names. As he talked and gestured, Amelia observed he did not wear a wedding ring. Then she privately rebuked herself for being so presumptuous. Since the time of her young marriage, she had not journeyed far from home, especially not alone, and now she was considering romancing a stranger. With those thoughts, she admonished herself for behaving like an adolescent flirtatious schoolgirl.

Amelia would later learn the elder Covingtons had indeed been lifelong, intimate, and loyal friends to her maternal grandparents, Lex and Dorine McClary. In those years long past, the McClary-Covington quartet enjoyed a warm, rich, and rare intimacy. It was a close bond, beginning in their high school years and, except for periods of separation, growing and enduring for much of their adult lives.

In their restless youth before marriage, first Lex and then Dan joined the military. They each found themselves in the ranks of doughboys, boasting they could straighten up Europe’s mess in a matter of a few weeks. Dan, the more practical, enlisted locally in the United States Army only after America entered the war. Lex, the more adventurous, hitched rides on various wheeled vehicles to gain his way to Canada. There he enlisted in the Royal Flying Corps, getting into the fray a full year ahead of America. His enlistment was not done of patriotism or sense of duty. Bewildered and disillusioned with his life, Lex was daring fate to have her way with him. And like a seasoned prostitute with a virgin young man, fate did indeed have her way with him.

Eventually, both Lex and Dan served in France at the same time, but they never happened to meet in that cluttered theater of war. Dan’s war was grounded in mud while Lex’s war was suspended above. Knowing of the other’s branch, Dan serving in artillery and Lex serving in the Air Corps, each at times looked toward the other’s realm and wondered if their friend was in their view and if he was being spared mutilation or death.

Each war fighter witnessed indescribable horrors of battle, and each suffered wounds of flesh and soul. Against the odds, their wounds of body and bludgeoning of spirit essentially healed, at least superficially, to render them physically able. Emotionally, however, they remained only precariously adequate to return to civil society following the armistice. Their relationship after the war was never as carefree and fun as were their teenage years, or at least as the comparison was relevant to Dan. Sometimes, though, they found brief precious moments of laughter, but only while the demons in their heads swooned with alcohol. As a result of several head concussions suffered during the war, as Amelia met him at Lexington’s funeral, Dan was now ailing of Parkinson’s disease and senility. As somewhat of a blessing, Hope acknowledged to Amy later, As an incidental blessing of his condition, Dan enjoys peace of mind, free of war’s haunting memories and the untold horrors of law enforcement. His diminished memory has granted him a childlike innocence.

Upon meeting Amelia in the chapel, Cliff’s father’s expression brightened as he excitedly exclaimed, Dorine!

No, Father. Cliff quickly corrected, This is Amelia. She is Dorine’s granddaughter. But no matter; the old man’s expression had already dimmed as he redirected his attention elsewhere, or rather nowhere, and seemed neither to hear nor care.

Cliff’s mother, Hope, complimented Amelia on her appearance. Since Amelia would be traveling home the next day, Hope insisted she come to supper at their house that evening. The gentle lady said she would be delighted to have the opportunity to tell Amelia about her magnificent grandparents, especially about those glorious times, when the four of us were young and strong, oh, and so bold and confident. Then she added, It would be wonderful if you could stay for another couple of days, at least. There would be much to discuss, and we could become much better acquainted. You can stay with us at no expense. You see, I lost your grandmother as my best friend about twenty years ago, and I have so dearly missed her. Your being here is a little like having her near again.

Amy found Hope to be delightfully charming, and she felt instantly befriended. She sensed the senior Mr. Covington’s senility had rendered him the character of an innocent young boy. In her interactions with Danny, not Dan, as he insisted, Amy quickly and comfortably assumed the role of grown-up to a child, following the lead of Cliff and his mother.

Continuing her accounting of the church’s assembly, sitting in the midsection, across the aisle, were two elderly well-dressed gentlemen. Arriving together, they sought Amy out and introduced themselves gallantly, as if she was a visiting royal princess. Amy was so charmed as to reward their chivalry with a curtsy. They were enthralled. The huskier gentleman introduced himself as Arnold Blaven and forthwith announced himself as Lex’s loyal friend and banker, from back in the good old days, and the other, Dr. Nelson Cline. Exceedingly pleased to meet you. He then proudly identified himself as, the family’s general practitioner, and mocking his associate’s introduction, he added, in the grand old days. They smelled mildly of whiskey and cigars. But those intriguing aromas were blended with others, cologne, the scent of cedar, and a hint of mothballs, probably from the closets where their scarcely aired suits had long, until recently, resided.

They tried to be remorseful to befit the occasion, but their sense of humor, quick wit, and one-upmanship tickled Amelia to the extent she had to cup her nose and mouth with her handkerchief to keep from either bursting with laughter or snorting to resist laughing aloud. At one point during the trio’s conversation, Mr. Blaven drew close to Amy’s left side and softly spoke as he wrapped his right arm to her right shoulder, Darlin’, I gathered some old papers from the bank basement. The documents dealt with your grandfather’s banking, loan papers, investments, and such. As he spoke, Amy eyes were drawn to his. He had bright brown eyes. As he talked his eyes reflected the sunlit windows in twinkles of perfect timing, accentuating the punch lines of his clever quips.

Amy’s senses, those conscious and those of intuition, concurred, these two of her grandfather’s longtime associates were honorable and trustworthy. Her intuition had seldom led her wrong, and it was now quietly suggesting to her, these two men were of integrity and goodwill. Amy was pleased to learn her grandfather was befriended by such good souls. Amy reasoned, if a man can indeed be judged by the company he keeps, her grandfather must have had qualities of character. But she recognized the contrasting character of Lexington’s lawyer, Mr. Hagget, as a contradiction of the adage.

The old banker continued, The papers are of no currency. All null and void. But although they are no longer of any relevance, I thought you might want to have them, perhaps as glimpses into your family history. He smiled broadly and tilted his head back. He had retrieved his arm from her shoulder and now held his hands up chest high, as if holding an invisible basketball. Lex and I transacted a lot of business in those days, ventures great and small. Lex was bold and ambitious in his endeavors, but he was also resourceful and responsible. He brought a good measure of adventure and excitement to my otherwise monotonous work of balancing ledgers. Until…until, well, something changed in him. Mr. Blaven’s expression became sober. His lips pursed.

Dr. Cline was quick to break the uncomfortable silence. "Well, in between those times when Arnold conducted business with Lex, the two of them seated comfortably in his office, sharing brandy, and, I would wager, those idle pastimes were undoubtedly practiced more often and for longer periods of time than their business deals justified, I, by stark contrast, dutifully attended to Lex’s medical demands. Stitching his wounds and splinting his fractured bones was no call to follow up with cigars and brandy wine.

"Lex was always in the thick of the action. If his ranch hands were working cattle, wrestling them down, branding, cutting off horns or one of a hundred other such dangerous and dirty chores, one could bet that Lex would be in the middle of the fray. It would usually take me longer to clean the mud and manure from his gashes than to stitch him up. And when it came to drilling for oil or keeping the pump jacks working, you couldn’t tell him from the roughnecks, smeared every inch with oil and stinking of the black crude. It was only by the grace of God that he never contracted blood poisoning or gangrene.

Unlike old Arnold here, I could not say my experience with Lex was enjoyable. Keeping him patched up was drudgery and worry. But I must admit, he did gain my admiration for his exceptional fortitude. He had other admirable traits, too, the most obvious of which I could never qualify precisely. Those included either tremendous bravery or stubborn foolhardiness, or both, he added as he shook his head at the floor. But in my ultimate analysis, Lex replenished my opinion of mankind. He stood apart from the wimps, hypochondriacs, and fatalists I often treated during my practice.

Now turning and frowning at his companion, the old doctor teased, And, Arnold, my old friend, I don’t believe anything mysterious or transcendental changed Lex. I believe he simply succumbed to a stroke. Although I would have to say, his symptoms were not entirely typical. The doctor had clutched Arnold’s forearm. Amy could see, the two of them were close friends, and she appreciated that the two gentlemen were once close to her grandfather. Beginning to gain familiarity with her grandfather’s character, Amy wondered if he had allowed anyone to become close, to confess or confide, without reservation of shame, his most painful and private of troubles, in the manner of true friends.

Amy was enjoying the warm and friendly conversation with Arnold and Nelson when the mortician abruptly interrupted with a disingenuous hasty apology. He coaxed the two gentlemen to the side aisle, speaking softly and gesturing mechanically. It seemed they had been drafted as impromptu pallbearers. Attorney Hagget had apparently neglected to arrange for pallbearers or to at least check with the mortician or the minister to ascertain that all principal elements for a funeral were in place.

Then, left standing alone, Amy was approached by a couple, modest in all respects. They were now seated two rows behind her. They appeared to be in their late thirties, but a casual inconsiderate glance might judge them a decade or more older, lest their trying lives were suspected and accounted. Amy hoped the tedious labor and worrisome struggles of her own life would not soon render her appearance so much older than her years. Returning to her scrutiny of the couple, Amy observed their garments showed slight fading and wear, but they were clean and pressed. Their mismatched outfits suggested either ignorance of fashion or, more likely, a limited wardrobe from which to choose.

The modest couple introduced themselves as Claudia and Delbert Delany. More to make idle conversation than stemming from interest, Amy asked them ordinary questions. She learned they lived in Nakatomwa, a small town in the wooded hills wilderness of the far southeast sector of the state. Delbert talked with a delightfully entertaining hill-country accent. His vernacular, unique slang terms, and the twang in his voice suggested colorfully blended accent of the vicinity, Arkansas hillbilly, Texas drawl, and Louisiana Cajun.

Amy assumed the odd name of the Delanys’ hometown was derived from the Native American culture. As a means to remember introductions, it was her habit to silently pronounce to herself the names of newly met people and their associations, towns, workplaces, and such. She found the Delanys’ hometown name to be difficult to pronounce to herself, and she couldn’t imagine how it might be spelled or even if principles of English phonics applied to such names. She was about to ask Delbert to restate the name of the town, but his anxious determination to explain their connection to the late Mr. McClary allowed no interruption.

Delbert continued, nervously recounting details of his mother and father doing business with Mr. McClary for years and—attempting an air of sophistication to his voice—always remarked highly of him. He added, All through my childhood, I remember times Mr. McClary visited us. He often brought good things to eat, storybooks, and boxes of pencils, writing tablets, crayons, and such as that, and at Christmastime, toys for all us kids.

Claudia abruptly interjected with an uncomfortably shrill voice. It was an orphan’s home, you see. Delbert was abandoned as a baby, and the Delanys adopted him, she added. Baby Delbert was left in the train station depot where Mr. Delany worked, sweeping and mopping the floors, emptying ash cans and keeping the place tidy. Delbert seemed embarrassed, but he remained politely silent as his wife continued. Mr. Delany, Delbert’s adoptive father, she stated pragmatically, told me Mr. McClary had read about the adoption in the newspaper, and he came to visit the Delanys, from 250 miles away. And right then and there Mr. McClary talked them into starting up an orphanage, with Mr. McClary providing the money and the Delanys doing the work. Now that was how it was.

Delbert provided the epilogue. Momma and Daddy got so old, they could hardly take care of themselves, nary the kids. So the government came and took the last three kids they still had. I was grown-up by then and married to Claudia. We lived next door. Amy’s conversation with the Delanys then lulled, but in that moment the minister stepped onto the podium and stated, Please be seated. The funeral then commenced.

Continuing her account of each person in the congregation, Amy observed the funeral home director seated at the far end of the front pew to her left, on the far side of the Covingtons. The minister’s wife sat at the end of Amy’s bench, to her right.

The only other person in the church was a tall and lanky man of about forty. Mr. Hagget had introduced him to Amelia the day before as Henry Griffin, or Hank, as he preferred. Hank was fostered by the McClarys from the age of fourteen. Hank was eighteen when Dorine left Rogers County, hence never to be seen. After a two-year hitch in the Army, Hank returned to the small ranch to help care for Lexington McClary. Although improved from years earlier, Lexington continued to exhibit varying degrees of mental instability during the last years of his life. With no fortune in the coffers, Hank’s motivation was obvious to anyone who knew him; he was simply devoted to Dorine and Lexington McClary, the only family he had ever known.

The lawyer, Ralph Hagget, had explained the situation to Amy in his office the day before the funeral. He told Amy then, in a contemptuous voice, "The McClarys were pressured by a judge to take Hank in as a young teenage hoodlum. It was probably a trading of favors, or a retribution. For some curious reason the McClarys received no foster care payments from the state. Well, maybe they simply refused the state aid, but that would have been foolish.

"Essentially Hank was an unpaid ranch hand until he was drafted into the Army. Hank returned from his active duty, the only paying job he ever had, to become Lexington’s unpaid live-in caretaker. He took care of McClary for the next eighteen years, until the man died three days ago. So, Hank was with the McClarys during the last twenty-five years while their wealth declined in consort with Lexington’s diminishing sanity. For most of their lives, the McClarys mismanaged their businesses and their estate. They lost their petroleum empire, and they sold their thousands of acres of ranchland, piecemeal, in sections of several hundred acres at a time. Each time they sold land and reduced their acreage, the McClarys had to correspondingly sell off hundreds of head of beef cattle. Most of those hundreds of thousands of dollars received from selling real estate and cattle were squandered on mediocre race horses, dubious charities, quack psychiatric hospitals, fancy automobiles, and God only knows what else.

"Then the McClarys had a windfall about the year 1950, oddly, about the same time that Dorine suspiciously disappeared. The money came from some obscure oil field that must have sprung up and then quickly petered out. At least I could find no trace of any continuing revenues. Out of money, resources depleted, and nearing death, McClary sold the last of the cattle to provide for his and Henry’s minimal expenses. Only enough for a couple of years, at most. The old man made a bargain with Henry to stay on with room and board but no real salary. It was agreed and written into McClary’s will that Henry would receive a share of the estate upon McClary’s death.

The ailing McClary needed Hank to help take care of him and to maintain the property to some minimal degree that avoided proper upkeep expenditures. To save utility costs, Hank and McClary boarded up the big house and moved into the bunkhouse. They heated the bunkhouse with a single stove burning wood or coal. They also cooked on the heat stove. It seemed to me as if they were, consciously or not, doing penance. They had the electricity and telephone disconnected, and they refused to refill the butane fuel tank. In those meager remnants of the former estate, Hank became the de facto cook, housekeeper, handyman, and of late, bedside nurse for old McClary.

The lawyer rambled on as might a prosecutor making his closing argument of condemnation. The big house and ranch buildings are now dilapidated. The eighty was overgrazed and is now a big weed patch. That pitiful place is all that remains of the once enormous McClary enterprises. Those properties, once including significant petroleum royalties with proven reserves and the five-thousand-acre ranch dubbed Sunnalee, were reduced to a pittance on a mere eighty acres, hardly worth the real estate loans and back taxes now accumulated against it.

Amy noticed Mr. Hagget spoke of all such matters with either detachment or a cynicism and never with a hint of compassion. She thought it was disrespectful for the lawyer to frequently refer to her grandfather simply as McClary. She also resented his implied belittling of Hank.

Amy recalled, before Hank arrived at the lawyer’s office, Mr. Hagget’s review of Lex’s last will and testamentwith her. The lawyer explained the document had been drawn up and notarized several years earlier by his past law partner, the late Mr. Duncan. Mr. Hagget also pointedly added, he had admonished Lex to update his will more recently, but Lex refused him. Amy then detected scorn in the lawyer’s complaint.

Mr. Hagget continued to explain, he and the local authorities were virtually certain Dorine McClary had long since passed away. Indeed, he reiterated, no one, not even Lexington, admitted to having seen or heard from her during all the twenty years of her disappearance. He continued his version of the summation of rumors. About twenty years ago, according to talk around town, she and Lex had been engaged in another of their notorious quarrels. Town gossip claimed their fights were becoming more frequent, more prolonged, and more verbally abusive.

Mr. Hagget paused and changed his tone, blatantly obvious for effect. "And perhaps their feuds were also tending to degenerate toward physical abuse. As rumor had it, while the verbal lambasting was vehemently mutual, there were, in fact, no police reports or evidence of escalation to physical violence. Well, then one early December afternoon, as my interviews divulged, Dorine drove into town to bid farewell to her closest friends. She vowed she and Lex would never again suffer repetition of their mutually tormenting abuses. She soberly bid goodbye to her friends and sped away in her new bright red Oldsmobile Rocket 88 convertible. McClary had recently presented the spectacular automobile to her as a late birthday gift, or an early Christmas gift, depending on who is telling the story.

The car was a special order, direct from the automobile plant in Lansing, Michigan. By all accounts, even at the age of fifty, Dorine was a beautiful woman. Passing by in an automobile, a stranger’s glance would have judged her at no more than thirty. Such an attractive woman motoring alone in a sporty bright red automobile would certainly have been noticed. There should have been a hundred observers to have later told of the route and the direction she traveled out of town, and from there, other witnesses down that road…that is, if she actually drove away. But unbelievably, the sheriff and his deputies found no one who had seen a beautiful blonde woman in a bright red convertible. She simply disappeared, and I find that highly suspicious. The sheriff, you see, was a close friend of Lexington McClary.

Amy would eventually learn Mr. Hagget initiated a new and unauthorized search for Dorine only weeks before Lexington McClary died. That search was conducted without Lex’s knowledge. Its costs were hidden in other of the lawyer’s inflated invoices, particularly merged with the charges and fees applicable to the latest search for Lex and Dorine’s daughter or any grandchildren. That was the search that found Amy. Ralph Hagget never expected to find any heirs. It seemed he continued the searches merely as a means to supplement his erratic income as a small-town attorney.

Ralph Hagget admitted that, prior to discovering Amelia, he was virtually certain that no descendant of Lexington McClary would ever be found. He was now more certain than ever that Dorine had died years ago. As the compensated administrator and legal counselor of the McClary estate, as well as the paid attorney for the McClary Charity Foundation, if he could show there were no heirs he would have principal control over the settling and disposition of the McClary estate.

Amelia continued her recollection of Attorney Hagget’s rambling monologue of the previous day. His briefing was spoken with a tone of suspicion and contempt. "Perhaps Dorine changed her mind and went back home to her husband later that day, the day she allegedly left town. Possibly they argued and their quarreling turned into a physical confrontation. It seems feasible to me such a fight could have resulted in Dorine’s death. It might have been unintended, resulting from thoughtless rage or even a simple shove or an accidental