Free Obit Delayed by Helen Nielsen Page A

I was?” Mitch demanded.
    “I’ll tell you all about it when you get over here.”
    “But it’s late—”
    That brief pause on the other end of the wire could only be The Duchess counting ten. “Mitchell,” she said in a strained voice, “to coin a phrase, it’s later than you think!”
    When she put it that way he just couldn’t resist.
    The Duchess lived in a big house across town where the residents spent most of the time figuring ways to outsmart the internal revenue department; but it was only ten minutes from Main Street. Ten minutes and Mitch was sitting in her kitchen with a cup of freshly brewed coffee in one hand and his chin in the other.
    “Well, what is it?” he demanded. “What’s so important the crime reporter can’t wait until morning?”
    The Duchess was taking coffee like a wino hitting a new bottle. She had to refill her cup before answering.
    “Do you want the whole evening?” she asked.
    “Do I have a choice?”
    It was a foolish question.
    Carmen Atturbury (that’s what it said on her by-line) was a woman of action. She had wasted no time getting started on her end of the investigation, but the first try came a cropper. Pinky’s Quick Lunch—after all, who spent more time with Virginia than Pinky?—was locked up tight with a “Closed Tuesday” sign on the door. That left no alternative but to take Mitch’s advice and proceed to Mrs. Molina’s down at the edge of Mexican town. Next door to Virginia’s—that much she remembered, and everybody knew where to find the house Virginia Wales had died in. It crouched dark and ominous with its doors padlocked and its windows black.
    But Mrs. Molina’s door wasn’t padlocked, and all her windows were bright. Mamma Molina (“Call me Mamma,” she insisted. “Everybody does.”) liked plenty of light now that she was left all alone. Being a widow after forty years married was bad enough, but now with Virginia gone—
    “The old soul’s lonely,” The Duchess explained, “and all worked up over Virginia’s death. She talked an arm off me—even wanted me to help her get in touch with Virginia on the Ouija board!”
    “That’s the best lead I’ve had yet,” Mitch muttered. “Why didn’t you?”
    “We couldn’t. The boy came to steal the dog off the service porch, and I took my chance to get away before they stopped fighting.”
    The Duchess paused long enough to light a cigarette and inhale deeply. “You’re not making any sense, you know,” Mitch remarked.
    “Of course not!” she said. “I’m just telling you what happened.
    “Mrs. Molina had just gone to the kitchen for the Ouija when this kid slipped in through the back window and tried to make off with a puppy she had out on the porch. She caught him and they got into a terrific argument. From what I gathered, the dog had been Virginia’s and the boy was trying to claim it—”
    “What about Virginia’s illness?” Mitch reminded.
    “Oh, that! A pain in the belly, the old lady said. An operation. I checked at the hospital after making my escape, and regret to inform you that Virginia had her appendix out last fall.”
    The wise-old-owl expression on The Duchess’s face was entirely unnecessary. Mitch didn’t have to be reminded that his one and only theory had vanished. Virginia could have picked up the habit after her operation, but without proof it wasn’t going to do Frank Wales any good. And without a link to Virginia’s death, Dave Singer and Rita and Herbie Boyle could go about giving extemporaneous exhibitions all over the county.
    “Did Mrs. Molina say anything else?” he prodded.
    “Constantly.”
    “About Virginia, I mean.”
    “Only that she was such a lovely girl. So pretty, so popular, so many friends.”
    “What about enemies?”
    “I asked about that and the old lady gave me an eerie smile. Only the noises, she said. I tried to find out what she meant, and that’s when she went after the Ouija board. I ducked out while the main