The Winter Widow by Charlene Weir Page B

looked out on an alley with tire tracks cut into the snow and across to the rear of Pickett’s Service Station and Garage. She watched one of Osey’s older brothers stop to light a cigarette before going inside. She didn’t know which one; Osey had four older brothers and they all looked alike.
    Turning from the window, she blew her nose and then slid open file drawers: paper supplies, folders of notes and expenses, clipped articles attached to typed copy. She pulled one, dated two months ago, and read about Joe Calvin, salesman for a car dealer, moving permanently to Kansas City. Henry had edited it heavily before printing and rightly so, she thought, shoving the drawer shut with a clunk.
    The top of the desk was clear except for a computer, a coffee mug bristling with pens and pencils (the mug read, “ NEWS MAY BE HAZARDOUS TO YOUR HEALTH ”), and a telephone with an answering machine. She rewound the tape for incoming messages and pushed the PLAY button. There were two hang-ups, then Ella’s voice. “This is your mother. Lucille, are you there? I wish you’d call.”
    The fourth was a woman with a birth announcement, then another woman, with particulars about an anniversary party hosted by the family of the Marsdens. Fifty years of marriage. Not bad. An unidentified male voice, “Returning your call again. We keep missing.” A repeat call from a more distraught Ella.
    Then, “It’s Doug.” Very angry. “What the hell’s going on? You said the Drake. I’ve called five times. You’re never in, you never return messages. Call me.”
    Who was this Doug person? She reset the machine for incoming calls. The Drake. A hotel? She looked around for the phone book, found it on the bottom shelf of the bookcase and turned to the listing for hotels. No Drake. She tried restaurants. Still no Drake.
    She wasted some time slipping disks into the computer and scanning the contents. In the center drawer, along with paper clips, rubber bands and Scotch tape, she found a small spiral notebook with five entries. October 27, 2:10. November 12, 1:50. November 29, 1:30. December 27, 12:13. January 5, 12:32, Floyd’s truck (underlined, with a question mark).
    The two dates and times on the cassette in Lucille’s bedroom weren’t included. She probably used the tape recorder in the car and later wrote the information in the notebook.
    Okay, Susan thought, Lucille took late-night excursions and on these dates she found indications to support her theory. What that theory was, Susan didn’t know, but she was willing to bet Lucille was avidly on the trail of cattle rustlers or dumpers of toxic waste.
    A tie-in with Daniel’s murder was another thing she didn’t have, unless he had run across evidence of one or the other. He had seen something that troubled him, that he wanted to talk over with Parkhurst.
    She copied down the dates and times, included Floyd’s name with the question mark and assumed Lucille had seen Floyd that night but wasn’t certain whether he was involved in whatever she was trying to find. So far Floyd was all Susan had that even resembled a lead.
    She put her own notebook in her shoulder bag and Lucille’s back in the drawer. When she tried to close the drawer, it caught half way and she stuck a hand in to level the jumble. It still wouldn’t close. She pulled it out all the way and a crumpled envelope fell to the floor. Crawling under the desk, she retrieved a phone bill, glanced at it, started to drop it on the desk, then sat down and copied the numbers Lucille had called in December.
    On her way out, she stopped in the doorway of Henry’s office. “You know anybody named Doug? Friend or acquaintance of Lucille’s?”
    â€œNope.”
    When she left the newspaper building, an ice-cold wind tore the door from her grasp, and she had to lean hard into it to get it closed. The sky was a dreary gray and