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property whose house burned three years ago, was his usual resting spot. At
times in cold weather she would meet her husband there with a Thermos of hot
coffee.
Mrs. Neill insisted that anyone who watched her husband for several
days would surely know the time he would arrive, which was between nine and
nine fifteen, six days a week. She maintains that he may have been killed for
an item he carried in the torn inner pocket of his jacket. Only personal items
were found by police, but Mrs. Neill claimed that he kept another there, aheavy key. She
was uncertain as to its use. Police Chief Roger Tory refused
comment when asked for reactions to Mrs. Neill's statement.
Funeral for Neill was held at Offberg Chapel on Tuesday, August 7, at
eleven o'clock.
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CHAPTER 21: THE READING ROOM
Marise seldom read the Clarion when it arrived. So little happened in
Channing that there simply wasn't much local news, and national subjects were
better covered by the Charlottesville papers Evan brought her from time to
time. She still subscribed, as the Clarringtons had for generations, however,
and the paper arrived every afternoon.
The newsboy always flung it into the mail slot from the street, seldom
missing his aim, though she had to turn the thing herself to get the
publication out again. Sometimes it waited there until the next day's mail,
but on Wednesday she usually took out the accumulation for the week to check
for specials she might want Alistair to pick up for her.
When she unrolled the sheets the name Floyd Neill jumped out at her.
She looked at the date, which was Tuesday's. The date of his death was the
preceding Friday.
She read with concentration, a prickly unease spreading through her.
Then she turned to page 3. NO FURTHER CLUES was the headline of a short
paragraph recapitulating the story of Neill's murder.
Marise scrambled through the pile of rolled back issues and arranged
them in order of their dates. Then she began with the first account of Neill's
death and moved forward chronologically. The story unfolded inevitably.
When she was done she leaned back in her chair. That inner pocket was
the one in which he kept the key to her gate. Through the glass panels, she
had often seen him fumble in his jacket and bring out the big key to unlock
the gate. Despite the humid August heat, she felt a chill run up her back.
Marise reached for the telephone, dialed the number on the plastic
overlay, and waited.
"Channing Police. Edgeware."
It was a young voice. Too young? She had to risk it. "Is the chief in?
Chief..." she looked again at the paper ... "Tory?"
"Jussa minute. Who's callin'"
"Mrs. Clarrington. 317 Myrtle Street. About Mr. Neill, the postman."
Again she waited.
After a long buzz a deep voice said, "Roger Tory here. May I help you?"
She took a deep breath before answering. "I don't really know. I just
read in the Clarion about the death of Floyd Neill, my postman. I am Mrs.
Marise Clarrington ... I live in the big stone house on Myrtle Street."
"I know the family, yes, Ma'am," he rumbled. "What's the problem?"
"I am not really certain at this point that there is one. Did you
happen to find among Mr. Neill's personal items a rather large brass key with
the numbers 317 engraved on its shaft?" She felt a surge of almost-panic as
she thought what it might mean if it had been missing.
"He had a key to my front gate. You may be familiar with the tall iron
fence with the matching gate that surrounds my property. The key allowed him
to get in to deliver my mail. I wondered about it. One doesn't like to think
of a ... a murderer who strangled a postman walking around with your key in
his possession."
"Hmmm." She had a mental picture of a big, florid face, frowning
perhaps, the eyes speculative. She could almost hear his wheels turning as he
thought about what she had said.
"We didn't find a key, Mrs. Clarrington. We'll look among his things at
the Post Office, and we'll keep in touch. All right?"
She could hear skepticism mixed with concern in his fruity voice.
Clarrington Enterprises, the largest employer in the county, swung a lot of
weight. Despite her oddities, Marise was the head of that concern. She could
hear him biting down on the ideas of power and money. But she also intuited his
other thought. She felt him searching among
his memories of stories about the old tragedy and the death of her
sister-in-law Penelope.
"Thank you. I shall call again, if you don't mind," she said.
The phone clicked into place and she sat staring at the wall. Whatever
happened in this house ten years ago, whatever part she might have played
without knowing it, she now knew with total certainty that she had nothing
whatsoever to do with Floyd Neill's death.
This might be cold comfort, but it was better than nothing.
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