Whispers from the Dead by Joan Lowery Nixon Page B

for this call.”
    “I’m sorry,” I said. “Maybe I didn’t explain it right. I was cleaning up, and I found a few possessions belonging to a Rosa Luiz.”
    “What possessions?”
    I don’t know why, but something kept me from telling him everything. “A small amount of money and a religious medal. Her name was with them.”
    “Oh,” he said, the tension leaving his voice. “Well, somehow they must have gotten tucked out of sight and she forgot about them. Obviously they didn’t mean much to her.”
    “You know her, then.”
    “Yes,” he said.
    “Did she work for you?”
    “A long time ago. It must have been ten years, at least. I remember it was when we first moved into that house. We only employed her for a few months. She didn’t work out.”
    I took a deep breath and tried to sound calm. “Do you know where she went?”
    “No,” he said. “Probably back to Mexico.”
    “I’d like to return these things to her.”
    “Forget it,” he snapped. “She was one of the many illegals. She’s probably somewhere back in Mexico, andyou’d never find her. Keep the money. Count it as an unexpected gift.”
    “That’s all you can tell me about her?”
    “That’s more than enough. I scarcely remember her—” He broke off, his tone almost angry. “I have a business appointment. There’s really nothing more we need to discuss, is there?”
    “No,” I said. “Thank you very much.”
    As I hung up the receiver Dee Dee leaned across the counter, asking eagerly, “Well? What did he say? Tell me!”
    I tightly gripped the envelope that held Rosa Luiz’s few possessions. “He said he barely remembered her, that she worked here for just a few months when they first moved into this house.”
    Dee Dee looked disappointed. “So that’s that.”
    “Let’s keep this to ourselves,” I told her. “At least for now, I’d just as soon no one else knew about it.”
    Dee Dee tried to look innocent. “Sure, if you want. I can keep a secret, no matter what Eric says about me. But I don’t understand why—”
    “No real reason. Just humor me. Okay?”
    But I did have a reason. The dates Mr. Holt gave me were years before the dates on the letter and on the calendar.
    Martin Holt had lied to me, and I wanted to know why.

Chapter
Seven

    W hen Dee Dee left for lifeguard duty, I was glad. I needed time to think.
    Mom handed me a folded newspaper. “Do me a favor and take this out to the garage,” she said. As I glanced at the newspaper the front-page headlines gave me an idea.
    “Do you think that the
Houston Post
or the
Houston Chronicle
would let me look up back copies of their newspapers?” I asked Mom.
    “You can find back issues of local papers on film in any city’s downtown library.” She straightened, a hand at the small of her back, and leaned against the kitchen counter, studying me. “You want to read about the murder, don’t you?”
    “Yes.”
    Her forehead puckered. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
    “Everyone else knows all the details. I think it will be easier to know what happened here than to guess at it.” I had to learn as much as possible about what really happened.
    Mom hesitated. “Maybe we should ask your father for his opinion.”
    I walked over to face Mom, resting my hands on her shoulders. “Mom, you’ve got to stop worrying about me. I need to be independent. I have to make my own decisions.”
    Mom took a deep breath, closing her eyes. She opened them, looked right into my eyes, and said, “All right, Sarah. I trust your judgment. If you want to go to the library, you can take the car. I won’t need it until late this afternoon.”
    “Thanks, Mom.” I gave her a hug, then paused. “Do you happen to know how to get to the downtown library?”
    She laughed. “Call them up, O Independent One. Ask
them
for directions.”

    “Let’s try this one first,” the librarian said as she snapped the first roll into place in one of the microfilm readers and