“Oh,” She looked up at me and laughed. “I tied a can to him. He was too much of a stick. He liked it here.”
“When did all this happen?” I asked.
Her face was tilted up to mine. “The day after you took me to dinner in the hotel. He was there in the dining-room, seated right behind you — I thought perhaps he’d given you the black eye.”
“That was Sergeant Harbet. Say, did your Uncle Steve deliberately run away from my aunt?”
“Yes. He’s sensitive about his weight, his baldness, and his rural background. He figured she’d been living in cities, was sophisticated and smart, that she’d look on him as a country boy—”
She broke off abruptly as the typewriter behind the partition quit clacking.
Steve Dunton had finished writing the obituary.