Free Winter of Discontent by Jeanne M. Dams

helped him, even if it was too late for poor Bill?”
    “Exactly. Now”—as he opened our back door—“suppose you lie down for a bit while I keep an eye out for Jane’s return.”
    I did as Alan suggested. I felt as though I’d been hit over the head like Walter.
    Well, no, I didn’t, of course. Poor Walter’s life was in danger, or might be, and I lay there in a comfortable bed feeling sorry for myself because I felt tired and discouraged.
    And guilty. If only I’d had my bright idea about the tunnel sooner! Bill might still be alive. Walter might not have been hurt.
    I turned over and pummeled my pillow, which refused to cooperate. Lying on my front made my knees hurt. And my back. I turned to my side and pounded the pillow again.
    If Walter died, it would be my fault. Where did I get off thinking I was some kind of detective? Anybody with an ounce of sense ought to have thought of those tunnels ages ago.
    Nobody else did, though, did they?
    Well, no, but …
    And you don’t know when Bill died. It might have been instantaneous.
    True, but …
    And punishing yourself won’t accomplish a thing. Your martyr’s hat is getting a trifle threadbare. Throw it out.
    I often have conversations with myself, but this time the voice of reason spoke quite distinctly in Alan’s accents. I sighed, gave him a mental salute, and went to sleep.
    I woke after an hour or so. I’d had plenty of sleep the night before, after all, and closing my eyes at this hour of the day never did much for me. But I woke somewhat refreshed, and certainly in a better mood.
    I went down to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee, and then went in search of Alan. He was in his study, but not, this time, at his computer. In fact, he was just finishing a phone call.
    I barely gave him a chance to cradle the receiver. “Have you seen Jane? Is she all right?”
    “As well as can be expected. She came back with the dogs about fifteen minutes ago. She wouldn’t have breakfast, just popped in to tell me she was driving to the hospital to see young Walter.”
    “Oh, dear! I hope he’s not—I hope he’s better.”
    “I rang up. He’s still unconscious, but they’re working on bringing down the swelling. They seem cautiously optimistic.”
    “How did you find out all that? I’ve never known a hospital to give anybody any information about a patient except the one-word description of his condition. You know, ‘critical, serious, guarded’—those words that don’t really mean much.”
    “A policeman has certain privileges. Even a retired policeman. I’ve learned quite a lot in an hour on the phone.”
    “Well, come and have a cup of coffee with me and tell me everything you know.”
    “For a start,” he said when we were settled at the kitchen table, “you’ll want to know about that piece of paper that was in Bill’s hand when you found him.”
    “Oh!” I sat up straighter. “I’d forgotten all about it, to tell you the truth. I’m slipping.”
    “Not surprising, under the circumstances. But I think you’ll be quite interested in what Derek told me.”
    “For heaven’s sake, Alan!”
    “Yes, well, all right. I could draw this out, of course, but I won’t. Bill was holding a letter, an old letter, by the look of it. There is no date, but the paper is creased and dirty, and somewhat yellowed and chipped and so on. There’s no name of sender or addressee, no return address, and no signature. In fact the last sentence on the page is incomplete, so it looks as though what we have is the first page of two or more. But the text of the letter is of interest, because it contains—are you ready for this?—the place names that Bill marked on that map of Indiana.”
    “But—I don’t understand. Was the letter written to Bill? Suggesting some places he ought to go, maybe?”
    “It was headed ‘Dear Waffles.’ I asked Jane, when she was here a few minutes ago, whether Bill was ever nicknamed Waffles. She thought