“How did you find out?”
“The woman who rented the apartment to her identified the photograph.”
“Why on earth would Roberta Fenn have done anything like that?” Bertha asked.
I said, “I don’t know either. Here’s something else.” I opened my wallet, took out a personal I had clipped from a morning paper, and handed it to Bertha.
“What is it?” she asked.
“A personal that’s been running every day for two years. The newspaper won’t give out any information about it.”
“Read it to me,” Bertha said. “My glasses are in my purse.”
I read her the ad: “Rob F. Please communicate with me. I haven’t ceased loving you for one minute since you left. Come back, darling. P.N.”
“Been running for two years!” Bertha exclaimed.
“Yes.”