Free Dial M for Meat Loaf by Ellen Hart

shape by next summer.”
    “Why didn’t we wait until then to visit?”
    Sophie could see that the dock was deep in a patch of weeds. The houseboat, the one Sulo had been raving about, looked as upscale as the cabin. “He said he’d leave the key above the door.”
    “Great,” said Bram, pushing out of the front seat. “No burglar would ever think of looking there.”
    Lugging two disgracefully heavy overnight bags across a patch of dead grass, Bram waited for Sophie to unlock the front door. Once they were inside, he dropped the bags with a thunk. “Good thing your cousin wasn’t planning to spend the night with us. Somebody would be sleeping on the floor.”
    Against the far wall sat two rusted metal bunk beds with sagging mattresses. That was the extent of the sleeping accommodations.
    “I don’t understand it,” said Sophie. “Sulo’s told me so many times how incredibly comfortable the place was.”
    “This from the same man who nearly killed me in his hand-built sauna. Sophie, if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: hyperbole is dangerous. It can kill.”
    They both stood for a few moments examining the dingy, claustrophobic interior.
    “Hey,” said Sophie, moving closer to her husband. “What’s that scratching noise?”
    “A mouse. Or, with our luck, a skunk.”
    Another few seconds passed.
    “Call the Sawmill Inn,” said Sophie, turning on her heel and marching out the door.
    “I’m on it.”
    Later that evening, while Bram was taking a shower, Sophie looked up Morgan Walters’s name in the Grand Rapids phone book, the one the motel conveniently provided. No Walters was listed. Morgan and his wife would probably be in their late sixties now—if they were still alive, and if they’d stayed in the area. Two big ifs. That’s when Sophie remembered Dan and Cathy Greenberg. The Greenbergs had lived next to Sophie’s grandparents all those years ago. They bought their eggs from the Walterses, too. They’d been in their twenties when Sophie knew them, so maybe they had some information on what happened to the Walterses.
    Scanning down the G’s, Sophie found a Daniel Greenberg on First Avenue North East. As Bram scrubbed away, Sophie punched in the number. Someone picked up on the second ring.
    “Hello?” It was a man’s voice.
    “Mr. Greenberg?”
    “Yes?”
    “I don’t know if you remember me, but this is Sophie Greenway. I used to be Sophie Tahtinen. You used to live next to my grandparents.”
    “Of course I remember you, Sophie,” Mr. Greenberg said warmly. He’d spent his life as a high school athletic coach in Coleraine. “You were just a child the last time I saw you. Gee, that must have been—”
    “A long time ago,” said Sophie, not wanting to get into the age thing. “I’m calling because I’m hoping you can help me with a question. Do you remember Morgan Walters and his wife? They lived out near Trout Lake.”
    “Sure, I used to go biking with Morgan. Nice guy.”
    “Do you know if he and his wife are still living around here?”
    Now he hesitated. “I guess you didn’t hear. Laura died four or five years after they were married.”
    “Died? How?”
    “Suicide. I don’t remember much about it, but shortly after it happened, Morgan took off. Far as I know, nobody’s seen him since. If you’re interested, you might try talking to Laura’s sister, Dotty Mulloy. She lives out on Mishawaka Road. I’m sure her name’s in the book.”
    Sophie could hear Bram’s shower winding down. She could tell because he’d reached the next to the last chorus of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” “Thanks, Mr. Greenberg.”
    “I hope you find the information you’re looking for.”
    “Me, too.”
    As soon as she’d hung up, she pulled the phone book in front of her again and scanned the M’s for Dotty Mulloy. There it was: Ben and Dotty Mulloy, 1748 Mishawaka Rd. She punched in the number. The line had just flipped over to an answering machine