Free Dial M for Meat Loaf by Ellen Hart Page A

when a woman’s voice answered. “Mulloys.”
    “Hi, is this Dotty?”
    “Yes, it is.”
    “My name’s Sophie Greenway. I’m the food editor for the Times Register in Minneapolis. My husband is Bram Baldric.” She thought putting a little information up front might be a good ploy to get the woman’s attention.
    “Say, I’ve heard of Mr. Baldric. He’s the one with that talk radio show.”
    “That’s right. We’re in town because Bram is doing his show live from the fair grounds tomorrow afternoon.”
    “I was over at the fair today. He’ll get a great crowd.”
    Sophie felt pretty confident she had her. “I was wondering if I could come over to your house tomorrow afternoon. I was hoping to talk to you while I was in town.”
    “Me? Why?”
    Sophie was afraid that if she said too much, Dotty might refuse. “I’d rather explain it to you in person.”
    For a few seconds, Dotty didn’t speak. “Well,” she said, finally, “I guess that would be okay.”
    Sophie could hear the water in the shower stop. The curtain was yanked back. “What time is good for you?”
    “I have a doctor’s appointment at noon. How does two sound?”
    “I’ll be there. And thanks, Dotty.”

10
    Dotty Mulloy’s home was an old white clapboard farmhouse nestled into a tall stand of jack pine, a good hundred yards in from the main road. A screened porch stretched all the way across the front, and that’s where Dotty was sitting the following afternoon when Sophie pulled into the long drive.
    Based on Dotty’s white hair, arthritic-looking hands, and the cane resting next to her rocking chair, Sophie estimated Dotty’s age at somewhere in her late seventies. Her eyes were lively, and she smiled broadly as she motioned Sophie to the wicker love seat.
    “Lovely day,” said Dotty, adjusting her cotton skirt carefully over her knees. One knee was wrapped in an Ace bandage, while the other looked swollen and sore.
    Sophie sat down, noticing a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses resting on the table between them.
    “Help yourself,” said Dotty. “It’s a warm day. I thought we could use a little refreshment.”
    “Would you like me to pour?”
    “Go ahead. I was hoping my husband could be here to meet you, but he had business in town. While I was making the lemonade, I was listening to your husband’s radio show. I think it’s such fun that he’s broadcasting live from our fair. He has the most wonderful voice. And he always sounds like . . . I don’t know, like he’s smiling at us—like he’s up to something.”
    “He usually is,” said Sophie, crossing one leg over the other. She’d worn a pretty yellow summer dress and matching heels today instead of her more comfortable jeans, sandals, and short-sleeved cotton shirt. “I’ll pass on your compliment.”
    After taking a sip of lemonade, Dotty continued, “So, put me out of my misery. Tell me why the restaurant reviewer at the Times Register wants to see me.”
    Sophie wished she had a more pleasant answer. Instead of launching into a long explanation, she took the picture of John and Mary Washburn out of her purse and handed it to Dotty. “Do you recognize that man?”
    All of Dotty’s good humor faded instantly. “Of course I do,” she said, her voice flat. “I don’t know the woman, but that’s Morgan Walters, my sister’s husband.”
    “Look carefully, Mrs. Mulloy. Are you positive?”
    Dotty held the photo closer. “Sure I’m sure. There’s that hideous snake tattoo on his arm, and he’s wearing those awful tight jeans, just like he always did. It didn’t leave anything to the imagination, if you catch my drift. No,” she sighed, shaking her head, “it’s not likely I’d forget what my sister’s murderer looked like.”
    “Murderer?”
    “That’s what I said.”
    “But, I thought . . . I mean I’d heard—”
    “That Laura committed suicide?” She looked away, her expression growing steely. “That’s what Morgan wanted