Free Dial M for Meat Loaf by Ellen Hart Page B

everyone to think. He might have fooled the police, but he never fooled me or my husband. We always knew Morgan had done it. He was no good. Oh, he had a line with women that was smooth as butter, but if he cared about Laura so much, why did he isolate her out there at that godforsaken house? Why did he leave her all alone for weeks at a time?”
    “When were they married?”
    “April of 1960.”
    Less than a year after the photo had been taken, Sophie thought, and less than two years after John and Mary were married. That made John Washburn—or Morgan Walters—a bigamist.
    “When did Laura die?”
    Looking down at her hands, Dotty replied, “November 16, 1965. It was a Saturday. Her best friend, Rebecca Scoville, found her.”
    It was the same year Sophie had taken her unforgettable motorcycle ride with Morgan. “What did Morgan Walters do for a living?” she asked, afraid that she already knew the answer.
    “He was a traveling salesman. Don’t ask me what he sold. I don’t think I ever knew.” Dotty glanced at the snapshot again. “Who’s the woman he’s standing with in the photo?”
    “A relative,” Sophie answered. She hoped Dotty would leave it at that.
    “Humph. He never was very forthcoming about who his people were. From the very first, my husband and I figured he had something to hide, but Laura was head over heels in love with him. Nothing we ever said made a difference.”
    “How did your sister die?” asked Sophie.
    “The police said she hung herself. Tied one part of a rope around a pipe in the basement, put a noose around her neck, stood on a chair, then kicked it out from under her. But it was all lies. Why would my sister kill herself? The fact that she didn’t leave a note should have been a red flag to anyone who was looking. Laura always told me how much she loved her life. Loved Morgan. Then again, I thought it was funny when I’d drive out to their place and she couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. Why would she act like that with her own sister—unless she had something to hide, too?”
    “What do you think it was?”
    Dotty lowered her voice. “I saw lots of liquor bottles around that house. Laura didn’t drink, so that left Morgan. I think she was trying to hide what was going on. There were times when I’d drive out to Trout Lake and Laura would be nursing cuts on her face, or bruises on her arms. Morgan did that to her. He had her so twisted around, so scared of her own shadow, that she wouldn’t even confide in her own sister.”
    “Did you ever confront him about it?” asked Sophie.
    She shook her head. “It’s one of the biggest regrets of my life. I should have done more to help Laura get away from him.” She wiped a tear from her eye.
    “What happened to Morgan after your sister died?”
    “He sold the house and left town. Far as I know, he’s never been back.” She removed a handkerchief from her apron pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “How come you’re so interested in Morgan?”
    Sophie’d been thinking about how she would answer that question. “The truth is, I ran into an old friend recently who used to know Morgan. He gave me the snapshot. My friend thought Morgan might still be living up here, so I told him I’d check it out when I was in town. Actually, I met Morgan myself once when I was thirteen. He took me on my first motorcycle ride.”
    “Did he ask you for a date?”
    Sophie did a double take. “No.”
    Dotty snorted. “From small comments Laura used to make, I got the impression that he was a . . . well, a very highly sexed man.” Dotty’s face flushed. “Thank God, my husband was never like that.”
    “So, you think he was unfaithful?”
    “I do.”
    “With women around town?”
    Dotty considered the question. “I doubt it. He was gone so much, I’ll bet he had a woman in every small town from here to Nebraska.”
    It was an interesting adjunct to Sophie’s theory. A traveling salesman with more than one wife. Maybe even more