don't go to him unless they're guilty, and he takes everything they have to getthem off."

"But he didn't get McGee off."

"He practically did. Ten years is asmall price to pay for first-degree murder. It should have been first-degree.He should have been executed."

The woman was implacable. With a firm handshe pressed her stray lock of hair back into place. Her graying head wasmarcelled in neat little waves, all alike, like the sea in old steelengravings. Such implacability as hers, I thought, could rise from either oneof two sources: righteous certainty, or a guilty dubious fear that she waswrong. I hesitated to tell her what Dolly had said, that she had lied herfather into prison. But I intended to tell her before I left.

"I'm interested in the details of the murder.Would it be too painful for you to go into them?"

"I can stand a lot of pain. What do you want toknow?"

"Just how it happened."

"I wasn't here myself. I was at ameeting of the Native Daughters. I was president of the local group thatyear." The memory of this helped to restore her composure.

"Still I'm sure you know as much about it asanyone."

"No doubt I do. Except Tom McGee," shereminded me.

"And Dolly."

"Yes, and Dolly. The child was herein the house with Constance. They'd been living with me for some months. It waspast nine o'clock, and she'd already gone to bed. Constance was downstairssewing. My sister was a fine seamstress, and she made most of the child'sclothes. She was making a dress for her that night. It got all spotted withblood. They made it an exhibit at the trial."

Miss Jenks couldn't seem to forget thetrial. Her eyes went vague, as if she could see it like a ritual continuallybeing repeated in the courtroom of her mind.

"What were the circumstances of theshooting?"

"It was simple enough. He came to thefront door. He talked her into opening it."

"It's strange that he could do that,after her bad experiences with him."

She brushed my objection aside with a flatmovement of her hand. "He could talk a bird out of a tree when he wantedto. At any rate, they had an argument. I suppose he wanted her to come backwith him, as usual, and she refused. Dolly heard their voices raised inanger."

"Where was she?"

"Upstairs in the front bedroom, whichshe shared with her mother." Miss Jenks pointed upward at the boardedceiling of the veranda. "The argument woke the child up, and then sheheard the shot. She went to the window and saw him run out to the street withthe smoking gun in his hand. She came downstairs and found her mother in herblood."

"Was she still alive?"

"She was dead. She died instantaneously, shotthrough the heart."

"With what kind of a gun?"

"A medium-caliber hand-gun, theSheriff thought. It was never found. McGee probably threw it in the sea. He wasin Pacific Point when they arrested him next day."

"On Dolly's word?"

"She was the only witness, poor child."

We seemed to have an unspoken agreementthat Dolly existed only in the past. Perhaps because we were both avoiding theproblem of Dolly's present situation, some of the tension between us hadevaporated. I took advantage of this to ask Miss Jenks if I could look over thehouse.

"I don't see what for."

"You've given me a very clear accountof the murder. I want to try and relate it to the physical layout."

She said doubtfully: "I don't havemuch more time, and frankly I don't know how much more of this I can stand. Mysister was very dear to me."

"I know."

"What are you trying to prove?"

"Nothing. I just want to understand whathappened. It's my job."

A job and its imperatives meant somethingto her. She got up, opened the front door, and pointed out the place justinside it where her sister's body had lain. There was of course no trace of theten-year-old crime on the braided rag rug in the hall. No trace of it anywhere,except for the blind red smear it had left in Dolly's mind, and possibly in heraunt's.

I was struck by the fact that Dolly'smother and her friend Helen had both been shot at the front door of their homesby the same caliber gun, possibly held by the same person. I didn't mentionthis to Miss Jenks. It would only bring on another outburst against herbrother-in-law McGee.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" she saidunexpectedly.

"No thanks."

"Or coffee? I use instant. It won't takelong."

"All right. You're very kind."

She left me in the living room. It wasdivided by sliding doors from the dining room, and furnished with stiff olddark pieces reminiscent of a nineteenth-century parlor. There were mottoes onthe walls instead of pictures, and one of them brought back with a rush and apang my grandmother's house in Martinez. It said: "He is the SilentListener at Every Conversation." My grandmother had hand-embroidered the

© Alexander Sviyash, 2009