“These guys used to place ads in a newspaper’s personal column to communicate with each other; Bill told me about it once. They used it to arrange meeting places and such. That’s all I know.”
“Peter, I want you to do exactly as I say.”
“What?”
“If you do exactly as I say,” she said, “we can clear things up. I want you to go to the morgue, claim Stella Lynn’s body, and act as if she’s your wife. Understand? You are her husband.”
“But,” he said, “our marriage—Oh, you know, it’s not legal.”
“How do you know it’s not legal? You can remember many things about Stella. Do exactly as I say, go to the morgue now, claim the body as Stella’s husband, and don’t let anyone see any doubt about the legality of your marriage in Mexico. Got it?”
He nodded.
“Do you have money?” she asked.
“Enough.”
“I can help—”
“No, I’ll cover the costs.” With that, he moved his chair back to stand up, his demeanor showing relief.
Peggy was in the newspaper office, sifting through back issues, carefully examining the personal ads section. In a newspaper from four days ago, she found an ad in the personal column: Frances, contact me. I’ve got a big deal, but I can’t do it alone. If we do it together, we can make a fortune. Please call Essex 4-6810, any time, day or night. Bill E.
The doubts in Peggy’s mind began to clear. The next question was whether she could convince Detective Fred Nelson of her interpretation or gather more evidence. A ten-cent coin would decide Peggy’s next move. She dialed Essex 4-6810 and waited; her pulse was racing with excitement. If everything went smoothly, she would handle it herself. If she hit a snag on the phone, her next call would be to Detective Nelson. Finally, an alert, cold male voice answered, “Who is this?”
“Is Bill Everett there?”
“Who wants him?”
“A girl.”
The man laughed, “You almost had me fooled.” She heard him shout, “Is Bill there? There’s a woman on the phone for him.”
After a moment, she heard footsteps approaching the phone, another voice, cold, wary, but slightly curious, “Hello?”
“Is this Bill?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m a friend of Frances; it’s about the butterfly.”
