Whispers from the Dead by Joan Lowery Nixon Page A

Is that your name?
I felt a shiver of recognition. I turned the envelope over and stared at it. “This is a personal letter,” I said. “I don’t think we should read it.”
    “Sure we should!” Dee Dee demanded. She was practically leaning into my lap. “It’s been opened, hasn’t it? Besides, we need to know who owns these things, don’t we?” She paused and added, “And if they have anything to do with the murder.”
    From the envelope I took out a small, rough sheet of paper. It was dated about four years ago and was addressed to Rosa Luiz with a formal heading.
    “Can you read Spanish?” Dee Dee asked me.
    “No.”
    “Then stop staring at the letter and give it to me. I’ll read it.”
    Almost reluctantly I handed the sheet of paper to her, and she studied it. “Oh, dear,” she said.
    I reached over and shook her shoulder. “Read it aloud! I want to know what it says too!”
    Dee Dee complied, translating as she went along, with only a few stumbles.
    This is to inform you that your uncle, Carlos Reyna, died last week of complications brought on by influenza. He worked on my farm for many years, as you may know. The other workers told me that you were his only living relation, so I am writing to inform you that he is buried in the church cemetery at Hermosillo. Señor Reyna had only a few possessions. I will hold them for you if you wish, but I am enclosing in this letter the medal he always wore.
    With sincere condolences,
    Señor Diego de la Ruiz,
    Rancho Playa del Rey, Sonora
    Sorrow wrapped itself around me, its weight bending my shoulders. “Poor Rosa,” I murmured. “She was all alone.”
    Dee Dee’s glance was curious. “How do you know that?”
    I was puzzled too. “I don’t really know. I just—” I took a deep breath and tried to cover by saying, “I just took it for granted that if she were her uncle’s only relative, then
he
must have been
her
only relative.”
    “Wrong,” Dee Dee said. “She might have been married. She might have a dozen children, parents, brothers, sisters-in-law, who knows?” She paused. “The real question is who is this Rosa Luiz, and what are her things doing in this closet?”
    “She probably worked here,” I answered.
    Dee Dee fingered the bills. “Poor thing. She worked hard for this money. She wouldn’t have wanted to leave it behind. Maybe we could find her and get it back to her.”
    “We can’t do that!”
    “Why not? You sound so positive.”
    The presence who had contacted me was Rosa. I was sure of this. But I couldn’t tell Dee Dee about it. How could I explain?
    “I know what we can do,” Dee Dee said. “We can telephone Mr. Holt. Maybe he’ll know where Rosa is.”
    “No!” I insisted, but Dee Dee handed me the letter, jumped to her feet, and ran into the kitchen.
    I hurried after her. “Dee Dee, wait a minute. I don’t think telephoning Mr. Holt is a good idea.”
    But Dee Dee had already bent over the Houston telephone directory and was thumbing through the pages. “I know where Mr. Holt works,” she said. “Yes, here’s the number. I’ll dial. You talk.”
    “We shouldn’t …” I began, but Dee Dee had already finished dialing.
    “Here,” she said in a stage whisper, thrusting the receiver at me. “It’s ringing!”
    “Hello?” a masculine voice was saying as I reluctantly took the receiver from Dee Dee. “Hello?”
    I tried to sound very businesslike, but I felt strange talking to a man whose son was a murderer. “My name is Sarah Darnell. Is this Mr. Martin Holt?”
    “Yes, it is.”
    I plunged right in. “Mr. Holt, we’re living in your former house on Fair Oaks Lane. We’ve found somethingthat belongs to a Rosa Luiz, and I hope you can tell me how we can get in touch with her.”
    For a moment there was silence. “Mr. Holt?” I asked. “Are you still there?”
    “Yes,” he said, his voice so thick with suspicion that it dropped a notch. “What do you want? I don’t understand the reason