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additional facts all day.”
    “Quite a baptism for you in your new position.”
    “You bet, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s my first byline. I mean a real one. I had plenty on the school newspaper, but this is different.”
    I congratulated him.
    “Ms. Phillips suggested that I call you.”
    “I’m afraid that I have nothing to offer, James. You know a lot more than I do. Everything that I do know comes from your article.”
    “But Ms. Phillips said that besides writing mysteries, you’ve also helped solve real murders.”
    “That’s unfortunately true.”
    “Did you know Mr. Wolcott?”
    “I’d met him a few times, but I wouldn’t say that I knew him well.”
    “Ms. Phillips thought you might have a few insights or comments about the murder.”
    “Hold it right there,” I said. “Writing about murder is one thing. The real thing is another. My only comment is that my heart and prayers go out to the Wolcott family.”
    “Oh, sure, no offense. It’s just that we’re working on a follow-up piece and are looking for some local color.”
    “Well, James, I appreciate the call, but I’m afraid you’ll have to find your color elsewhere.”
    “Do you know Mrs . Wolcott?” he asked.
    I hesitated before saying, “We’ve met. She’s a lovely lady.”
    “She’s being questioned as a suspect.”
    “Oh? I’m sorry to hear that.”
    “I have it from a good source.”
    “It’s only natural that the police will want to hear from her.”
    “No, I mean she’s a suspect .”
    While I admired his tenacity and youthful zeal for his job, I wasn’t anxious to prolong the conversation. “I really must be going,” I said.
    “Okay, only I hope it’s all right if I call you again, you know, as the case progresses.”
    “If you wish. Say hello to Evelyn for me.”
    Trying to put the murder out of my mind was like telling someone not to think of a green-and-white zebra. It stayed with me throughout the afternoon, helped along by more phone calls from friends. I spent time outdoors cleaning winter debris from my garden and doing other March chores. The light was fading when I came inside to answer yet another call. It was Edwina Wilkerson again.
    “What a day,” she said.
    “A day we could all do without. Have you heard anything aside from what was in the paper today?”
    “Yes, I have. I got up the nerve to call Myriam a half hour ago. She’d just gotten back from being questioned by the sheriff at police headquarters.”
    “How is she holding up?”
    “As well as can be expected. Sheriff Metzger put her through quite a wringer, as she put it.”
    “Questioning her is routine,” I offered. “After all, she was there at the time of the shooting. Did she say anything to indicate who might have killed him?”
    “No. But she did tell me a little of what had happened. She and Josh had an argument that escalated into something more.”
    “Did he hit her again?” I asked.
    “I believe so. Myriam says that it began to ‘get out of hand,’ which really upset their son, Mark. He walked out and went to a friend’s house not far away. Myriam said that his friend’s mother and father have become like a second family to Mark. He always went there when things heated up at home. Anyway, Mark left the house and the daughter, Ruth, fled upstairs to her room. Myriam says that her husband had been drinking before the argument and announced he was going out. She asked him where he was going, but he wouldn’t tell her. She tried to stop him and he threw her down. He left the house to get in the car—this is what Myriam says—and after a while she heard a shot. She ran outside and found him lying there by the car, blood coming from his chest.”
    “What an awful thing to have to go through,” I said. “The article in the paper says that Myriam’s brother and his wife were there.”
    “That’s true. She was in a panic and called them before dialing nine-one-one.”
    Before calling 911? Calling her brother first would