Free The Dead Letter by Finley Martin Page B

reception area, and Anne called her in.
    Gwen seemed to fill the room when she swept into it. She stood taller than Anne had remembered her at The Blue Peter. She wore dark blue jeans and a violet blouse. She set a small purse and a shopping bag on a coffee table and strode to the window behind Anne’s desk. She looked out over Victoria Row. The sun had peeked out and dried the cobbled street. It lit up the autumn colours of the trees. Across the street, the stone walls of the Confederation Centre glimmered.
    â€œWhat a wonderful spot,” she said.
    â€œI like it a lot,” said Anne.
    Gwen turned around. Her eyes fell on Anne and then to her desk, covered with untidy piles of papers and photos and reports. “I guess I did come at a bad time, didn’t I?”
    â€œWell, I can’t say that there’s ever a perfect time, but this is as good as it gets.”
    â€œDit speaks of you often. He likes you. It sounds strange, I know, but it’s almost as if I know you.”
    â€œI’d like to have been a fly on the wall when those conversations took place.”
    â€œIt was all quite complimentary,” said Gwen.
    â€œAre you sure? Even after every syllable of irony has been scrubbed out of it?”
    â€œNo guarantees, but it seemed so.”
    â€œNow I’m astonished,” said Anne.
    â€œI think I detect some irony now, though.”
    â€œYou’ve got a good ear. Maybe you and Dit are a match.”
    â€œDid you have doubts?”
    Anne shrugged and leaned back in her chair. “I always have doubts. That’s how I make a living. Everybody has something to lie about, something to hide. Good guys, bad guys…clients, too.”
    â€œThat seems…cynical,” said Gwen.
    â€œI don’t let it get to me.”
    â€œWhat about you?” asked Gwen. “What do you lie about?”
    â€œI never lie,” said Anne seriously. A hint of smile twitched the corners of her mouth.
    â€œNeither do I,” Gwen added, and winked. “So how did you get involved in this business?”
    â€œNecessity. My uncle, who started the business, died. I had a child to support. A door opened, and I stepped through it.”
    â€œThat’s a pretty big step. I’d be terrified.”
    â€œYou don’t strike me as the type who becomes terrified very easily.”
    â€œEveryone has fears…and maybe that’s why they hide things.”
    â€œPerhaps. It was a bit different for me. I had had a bit of experience before I came to Charlottetown. Four years as insurance investigator for an Ottawa company.”
    â€œDid you enjoy that?”
    â€œI did, but one of my managers developed a chronic case of roaming hands. I taught him some manners, and he fired me. A while after that adventure, Uncle Billy offered me a job down here.”
    â€œBut this must have been quite different from insurance investigation.”
    â€œThe cases are different, but the thinking is similar. Billy showed me how to work cases and stay safe. I think he was actually grooming me for the job, though I didn’t realize it at the time.”
    â€œWhat are you working on now, if you don’t mind my asking?” Gwen motioned toward the papers on Anne’s desk.
    â€œIt’s a police case file…about a murder ten or eleven years ago. It may be connected to another death around the same time. I’ve been hired to see if there’s a connection.”
    â€œThat’s fascinating. Really. Can you talk about it?”
    â€œMost of it’s no secret. It’s a closed case,” said Anne. Then she went on to describe the murder of Simone Villier in her Stratford office building, the police investigation that followed, and the subsequent arrest, conviction, and twenty-year sentence of John Dawson.
    Gwen leaned forward attentively in her chair as Anne recounted what she had learned about the murder. Then Anne reached into her desk and