Good Year For Murder by A.E. Eddenden

toward death. He blew his nose violently.
    â€œZulp here yet?” Tretheway asked.
    â€œNot yet,” Wan Ho said. “I’m sure he’s on his way. Like to catch me up?”
    Tretheway brought the Sergeant up to date from Addie’s first mention of St. Swithin’s Day to the present. Wan Ho stood quietly, nodding occasionally, taking in the information, mentally filing, evaluating and planning. When Tretheway finished (except for the mysterious cross) Wan Ho asked a couple of perceptive questions and then snapped out orders to the waiting detectives. They scattered—one in the cottage, two to search the grounds and the fourth to knock on neighbouring doors.
    â€œCan I see the body now?” Wan Ho asked.
    â€œThis way.” Tretheway started walking. He looked sideways at Jake. “As a matter of fact, I’d like you to see something else.”
    Wan Ho’s face, never inscrutable, showed a flicker of interest. The three of them squatted around the body. Tretheway lifted the tarpaulin.
    â€œDoc Nooner hasn’t been here yet, but I’m sure she drowned. A while ago, too.” Wan Ho nodded again while Tretheway went on. “Of course, we’ll be interested in his opinion. But just for now, what do you think of that?” Tretheway pointed to the mark just above Miss Tommerup’s knee.
    Wan Ho leaned forward. “What do I think of what?”
    â€œRight there. That red mark.”
    â€œIt’s just a red mark.”
    â€œYou’ve got to get it in the proper light.” Tretheway bent closer. “Damn. Can you see anything from your side, Jake?”
    Jake leaned closer. “I think it’s faded.”
    â€œWhat’s faded?” Wan Ho asked.
    Tretheway looked again. “I think you’re right. It’s gone.”
    â€œWhat’s gone?” Wan Ho was close to shouting. “A cross,” Tretheway said. “A what?”
    â€œSo help me,” Jake said. “A perfect Maltese cross.”
    Wan Ho looked again. “Well, it’s not there now.” He stood up. “Are you sure?”
    â€œYes.” Tretheway replaced the tarp. “Jake saw it too.”
    â€œThat’s right,” Jake confirmed.
    â€œNow let me get this straight.” Wan Ho organized his thoughts. “You saw an impression of a cross. A Maltese cross. Actually indented in the skin of Miss Tommerup.”
    â€œAs plain as day,” Tretheway said.
    â€œWell, what’s it mean? A signal? A sign of some sort?” Wan Ho shook his head. “This is real Charlie Chan stuff.”
    â€œChief Zulp’ll know what it means,” Jake said.
    â€œMaybe we shouldn’t mention it,” Tretheway said. “For the time being,” he added.
    â€œIt might be the best thing,” Jake agreed.
    They looked at Wan Ho.
    He shrugged. “I didn’t even see it.”
    That night, as Tretheway lay on his double-mattressed, double-springed bed listening to the wet rustling of the oak leaves outside his bedroom window, he wondered, just before he dropped off, whether it would rain for forty more days.
    â€œAll right, Tretheway. I don’t want any more surprises.”
    Tretheway was standing rigidly at attention in front of Chief Zulp’s desk. He had been summoned there first thing. It was Monday morning again, seven days after the murder of Ingird Tommerup; seven long, arduous and disappointing days for the FYPD—especially for Zulp.
    â€œDo you know how many people have called me every day? Including the week-end?” Zulp continued.
    Tretheway shook his head needlessly. Zulp stretched out the stubby fingers of one hand and jabbed at them with the index finger of the other, enumerating the callers.
    â€œThe Mayor. Always the Mayor first. Then the judges that sit with him on the Police Commission. Then that damn
Expositor.
Twice a day. And today, I had my first call from Edgar Tommerup. The deceased’s