Sequestered with the Murderers by Dr. Tanner (best books to read for self improvement .TXT) 📗

Rebbie. Next to Marjorie and Rebbie’s names, I wrote, engaged in disparaging talk about Duffy and Sybil. Though I listed Marjorie and Rebbie as suspects, their behavior on the bus puzzled me. If they had committed the murder or been involved, wouldn’t they have kept a low profile? Actually, Marjorie began the disparaging talk on the bus and didn’t seem to care who heard her. Was this her way of throwing the blame onto Sybil? I thought of Adam in the Bible, “And the man said, The woman whom you gave to be with me, she gave me of the tree, and I did eat.” Below the Need Info column, I scribbled, I must find a way to contact Marjorie and Rebbie.

Next, I examined the clear plastic that covered Duffy’s body. The plastic looked like the kind sold at any hardware store. The police report stated no fingerprints were on the plastic outside of the fingerprints that belonged to two troopers.

“Mmmm, no fingerprints except for those of the two troopers. Yes, this supports my theory that the murderer was organized.”

I realized that murderers more than not wore gloves—another item that supports my organized theory and the murder being homicide in the first degree.

The wounds now garnished my attention. Why shoot seven times? Was this the number of shots needed to make Duffy fall? The bullet holes locations were not clearly seen through the plastic because blood was all over his body’s left side. I hurriedly walked back to my desk and pulled the preliminary autopsy report from its folder. The marks and wounds section showed the exact location of the bullet holes. One was in the center of the chest and the others were around the center bullet.

Would one shot have killed him, I wondered? It doesn’t appear so. All seven wounds bleed out. Then which was the fatal shot. According to the preliminary report, a determination was yet to be made. Why did the murderer shoot seven times? I have a .22 caliber handgun, and Gam and my training instructor have both told me that one shot from a .22 caliber handgun in the right place could kill a person just like a more powerful handgun. I have heard naysayers say a .22 caliber handgun is not powerful enough to kill. However, not one of them has offered to be a guinea pig to test their belief. Seven times seem excessive to me. I added several more questions to my Need Info column, including why did the murderer shoot seven times and was the murderer under a passionate spell.

I had more questions than I had answers. I examined the photo closely one last time. What did Duffy have in his pockets crept into my mind? The police report said he had his wallet, keys, some change, and some peppermint candies. There was nothing of interest to me. After fifteen minutes of waiting for a revelation, I concluded that there was nothing for me to see at this time. After talking with others that were on the trip and with those at the viewing tonight, I may see the photo in a different light. Since there was nothing more to be shown to me, I walked into my bedroom to get dressed for my trip to Envyton County and Attribute.

CHAPTER 15

According to the addresses listed on the passenger list Brightness gave me, Marjorie, Rebbie, Carolyn, and Gwen all lived in the same zip code within Envyton County, in an area called Belated in the southern tip of the county. The county is not big. And according to the United States Census Bureau, it encompasses a total of 351.8 square miles and about 340 square miles is land. The Blue Ridge Parkway and Martinsville surrounds it to the east, Roanoke to the north, Attribute to the west, and Guestpost to the south. The 2000 census cited 13,874 people living in Envyton County.

The two pairs of ladies appearing not to have much communication with each other during the trip, except for the communication Solardette saw on the bus on the way home and the one time I saw them together was disturbing. I put this matter on the top of my list of items to explore with Carolyn.

I arrived at her house right on time. Her home was a modest one-story cream-colored wood siding rancher with a garage to the right side of the house, a covered porch, a pitched roof, and four single windows evenly spaced on the front with black shutters. It was an old house and looked like it was built in the 1950s or 1960s. The yard needed a little work done to improve the curb appeal, but overall the house was charming.

After I rang the doorbell, Carolyn opened the door with a congenial smile on her face. I hardly recognized her. Gone were the heavy make-up and dark red lipstick she wore each day of the trip. She didn’t have on the thick black eyeglasses she wore either or the black wig. Today, on her five-foot-tall small frame, she had on black pants and a white tee shirt. Her white hair was brushed back into a short ponytail.

“Hi, Vett. It’s good to see you again. Come on in.”

“Good to see you too, Carolyn. Thank you for agreeing to talk to me.”

I walked into a quaint living room with good solid mahogany furniture and furnishings that spoke of a time long gone. The lace doilies on the end tables, the colorful crocheted blankets lying across the back of two brown and black plaid recliners, and the orange cigarette stand in one corner now used as a plant stand were dead giveaways. The room was clean, and the house smelled like apples and cinnamon.

“I hope you don’t mind us talking in the kitchen. I have some lemonade and apple pie on the table for us. Just come this way,” Carolyn said.

“I don’t mind. The apple pie sure smells good. You have a charming home,” I