Just as she had expected, Judy found plenty of work waiting for her. The clerk at the hotel desk gave her a pile of manuscripts left by hopeful young authors. She glanced through these, waiting for the telephone to ring. All of them seemed inexcusably bad. Why, she wondered, did so many people waste their time trying to write when they had no idea of plot construction or character development?... Why didn’t the telephone ring? Peter must have had time to reach the police station.
One of Emily Grimshaw’s old clients came in and offered Judy another book manuscript. This was better than the others. She promised to read it.
“But where is Miss Grimshaw?” the author asked.
“Away,” Judy said briefly. “She left me in charge.”
Cautioning her to take care of the manuscript, the caller left. Judy’s despondent mood returned. It all seemed such a futile undertaking, helping struggling young authors who were trying to write about life when life itself was so much more important—Irene’s life.
At last the telephone rang and Judy recognized Arthur’s voice.
“We just missed Peter. Did he call you?”
“Not yet,” Judy answered.
“Then he couldn’t have heard the latest police report! The man who lets garage space to Jasper Crosby saw him driving out of the garage yesterday, and a girl was with him. It might have been Irene? That was in the morning, an hour or so after you called at the house. We haven’t learned anything else.”
“Nothing about the funeral?”