Sellers said to Belder, “Who else had access to this typewriter?”
“Why — no one, I guess. My wife’s family—”
Sellers’ eyes were narrowed and hard. “And the maid, of course.”
“Sally?”
“Yes. Who else would I be talking about?”
Belder said, “Why — yes — but why should Sally have written a letter to my wife suggesting that she was playing around with me? It’s cock-eyed. It’s crazy.”
“But Sally could have had access to that machine,” Sellers insisted.
“She could have, yes.”
Imogene Dearborne slumped down in a chair, her handkerchief at her eyes. The sound of her sobs filled the room whenever there was a lull in the conversation.
Sellers said to Bertha Cool, “You may be right. You may not be right. There’s something screwy about this whole business... Belder, get up and quit stalling around. Put this chair in just about the same position it was when Dolly Cornish was sitting in it... Okay, it was sitting in that position. All right — now let me sit there. Let me see what’s visible through the window from this angle.”