J
ane had made her favorite summer pasta salad. Little elbow pasta cooked in chicken broth, white chicken meat cut into small squares and browned slightly. Then minced onions, finely sliced celery, mayo mixed with a hint of nutmeg and a mere breath of curry powder. Nobody had ever guessed there was curry powder in it, but everyone asked what the mystery ingredient was that made it so special. With this she served toasted rounds of bread with Brie spread on it. And a good beer or lemonade depending on who wanted what.
Mel always chose a cold Coors. The real Coors, not the Light Coors. Todd chose the lemonade. And ate most of the toast and Brie.
When he'd returned to his room' and computer, Janetook Mel through the dining room and opened the door to his own office. It wasn't an office quite yet. But most of the main parts were done. Some of the studs already had insulation installed. The tiny bathroom had a sink and toilet, ready to install but no door or flooring yet. All but one of the windows were in place, the one which had arrived damaged and was on back order. The empty space was sealed with plastic sheets to keep birds, bugs, and dirt out.
Mel was impressed. "This might be done by the time we're married."
"That's what Mr. Edgeworth expects. He's here almost every day. I hear the general contractor groan quietly every time he shows up. Mel, I've been thinking about this case you're on with Miss Welbourne's death. 1 have an idea."
"What is it?" he asked eagerly.
"Involve the journalists here and in Australia." "How?"
"You should be able to get copies of their passport photos from the passport part of the government if you explain why you need them."
Mel laughed. "Just like that? I ask nicely? And they give me what I want? Jane, have you ever dealt with a federal government agency?"
"Not really. Just the IRS."
"Okay, Janey, suppose I can get a copy of their passports? What then?"
"You pay to have the pictures reproduced in something like the Sunday magazine supplement to the New York
Times. People all over the country take that. And there must be the equivalent sort of paper in Australia." "So how do they respond to the ad?"
Jane said, "Oh, I hadn't thought about that. What about a 1-800-something number."
"And pay thousands of people to answer the phones twenty-four hours a day? And deal with the loonies who think there's something in it for them to pretend they know something? `I saw a couple that looked like that last week in a bar in Denver,' or `I once met a couple in La Jolla that looked just like them two years ago. I think their names were something like Well-something,' Or even nut cases who want to pretend they are one of them."
"Okay, it was an idea. You said you'd hit a brick wall of sorts trying to find them. This could be the way."
She knew she hadn't planned this out well enough before presenting it. And it wouldn't be done. She really wanted to help him though. It was fine for his brilliant assistant to find out the whole history of Australian Welbournes, but it hadn't resulted in anything.
She should have stayed out of it.
But Mel was aimlessly thinking about Jane's suggestion when he arrived at his office the next morning. Maybe some variation of Jane's idea might work. Find a few rabid go-getter journalists in America and Australia to print the pictures and take it from there. If he'd even mentioned
the police budget covering dozens, if not more, people to answer phones, he'd be drummed out of his job.
He turned the first stage of this over to Officer Needham. "Would you burrow through the Internet and find out a couple more things for me?"
"I'd be glad to." She sat down and opened her notebook and took a pencil out of her pocket. "Shoot."
"I need, first, to know who is the most rabid, hardworking reporter on the New York Times, and get me his or her telephone number. Or just his extension number there."
"And next?" she asked.
"Find out if Australia has a newspaper that's more or less equivalent to the New York Times. Read all over the country, like the Sunday edition of the New York Times."
"And then?" She had the feeling there was more to this.
"A copy of the passports for the Welbourne brother and sister. Maybe the hotel where they stayed made a color copy of them. Even if it's black-and-white, we need it."
Officer Needham rose. "Is that all?"
"It's plenty, isn't it?"
"No. I think it will be fairly easy. I'll have to catch the lunch temp at the hotel again. And I'll make a point of wearing lipstick and eye shadow this time."
She almost bounced out of the room.
She was back three hours later. "It cost me a double
chocolate muffin to get a color copy for the lunch replacement. Told him to hide it in his locker so his boss wouldn't smell it lurking somewhere nearby. But I have it. I've also made a list of New York Times reporters. I had to pay by credit card to read their columns. But I found two possibilities. I've written them down. I also found a good reporter in Sydney, Australia."
She presented the paperwork. She'd made copies of the pieces she'd read by the reporters.
"You'll be reimbursed for the cost. Fill out the form and I'll countersign it. You've done a good job," Mel told her.
When she'd filled it out and gone, he sat reading what she'd found. And called to make an appointment with his immediate superior to go over the plan and get an authorization to send the copy of the passport pictures to the New York and Australian newspapers.
"Are you planning to give the names on the passports?" his superior, John Whitmore, asked.
"Only to the reporters. They'll be asked not to give the names out, and barely hint at a legacy. Not that her children are getting anything from her estate, but there will be loonies who want to try anything for a little cash and pretend they are the people on the passport pictures."
"Good idea, but how do the reporters weed them out?" Whitmore asked.
"By requiring them to spell out their mother's full
name.
"Is it a strange name?"
"Elinor Brooker Welbourne," Mel replied, writing it out in capital letters for the file.
He got approval for the plan and Officer Needham's expenses. The man who was in the chain of authority ranking right above Whitman had been nagging Mel for months to take over when Whitman retired at the end of the summer. Mel hadn't agreed and hadn't told him why. It was because it was purely a desk job like today's.
Whitman hadn't left his office for decades to be on the scene of a crime. He never met the suspects or witnesses to get an impression of how truthful they were being. Not that Whitman didn't do his job well. He looked over every single report in detail and had a good memory for following up on the results. But he had grown fat and clumsy. Mel didn't want to run to fat, sitting at a desk all day long.
The part of the job Mel enjoyed most was the firsthand view of the crime scene, the people — the good ones and the bad ones — that he met along the line of each crime he investigated.
While Mel was making his calls to the two reporters, Jane and Shelley were at the scene of the murder of Miss Welbourne.
Before they got to the scene Jane had stopped at the bank for a whole roll of quarters. She put quarters in the parking meter until it refused to take another coin. Neither of them planned to be there for eight hours, but