Winter of Discontent by Jeanne M. Dams

he?”
    “Well … I must admit he doesn’t look wonderful. They say he’s doing all right, but …”
    “‘Stabl.’ Could mean anything.”
    “Did they ask you about his parents?”
    “Yes. Don’t know anything. Never talked about his family. Don’t think they live around here.”
    “Where does he live, do you know?”
    “Boards with someone, up near the university. Cheap place. Not got a penny to bless himself with, that lad.”
    “Then I don’t suppose his landlady would know any more about his parents.”
    “Not likely. A shrew, from what I hear.”
    “Well, maybe he has friends at the university who would know something. It’s not that big, the university. Surely somebody …”
    I trailed off miserably. There was Walter, lying unconscious in a hospital bed. His family didn’t know, and he had, apparently, nothing better to go home to than a cheerless room with a shrewish landlady.
    “Might do some checking myself,” said Jane. “Family needs to know.”
    I sighed. “I wish there was something I could do.”
    Jane nodded. “Told you helpless is the worst feeling.”
    I brooded and wished I could have a decent cup of tea. Was there no way I could help?
    Well, there might be, come to think of it. “Alan,” I said slowly, “a while ago we talked about somebody needing to go through Bill’s storage and workroom at the museum. It’s a rat’s nest of papers and all sorts of junk, but there might be something interesting, something useful in there. Do you suppose Jane and I—?”
    Alan shook his head regretfully. “The whole museum’s a crime scene for now, Dorothy. Sealed off. You’re right, the storage room needs to be searched, but it’ll have to be done by evidence technicians. And it may be several days before they get around to it. Derek’s shorthanded, as usual, so they might in a pinch allow me to help, but I’m afraid I haven’t a prayer of getting you two in there. In any case, we have to face the fact—I’m sorry, Jane—that as Bill’s fiancée, you’re an interested party. No one thinks you had any hand in anything that’s happened, but …” He spread his hands.
    I sighed. “Well, as long as someone does it. I suppose maybe they can do some organizing while they’re at it. Walter won’t want to face that mess when he gets back to work.” I didn’t admit the possibility that Walter might never get back to work. It hung in the air of the room, as real and heavy as the hospital smell.
    We invited Jane over for lunch, but she said she had to feed her dogs. It was just an excuse. She wanted to be alone. My heart ached for her, but Jane is not an easy person to comfort, and she’s seldom in any doubt about what she wants.
    So Alan and I, saying we’d check with her later, went back, alone, to our house with the Christmas tree in the parlor and the Christmas cards on the mantel and two friendly cats dozing on the hearth rug. It ought to have been a comforting scene, but to me it all seemed infinitely dreary.
    We lunched on canned soup and cheese sandwiches. It didn’t matter. We were eating to live. One flavor of sawdust tastes much the same as another.
    “We never got round to talking about the letter,” Alan commented when we had finished and were drinking tea.
    “Letter? Oh. The letter.” I added milk and sugar to my tea.
    “Snap out of it, Dorothy!”
    I gave such a start I spilled my tea. Alan had never before shouted at me.
    “You’re feeling sorry for yourself, and blaming yourself, and working yourself into a fine tizz, and I won’t have it. You’re not God. You’re not even Superwoman. You’re a perfectly healthy, sensible, intelligent woman, and I love you, and I’m not going to let you sit there and make yourself miserable.”
    I made an effort. “I’m sorry, Alan. I know I’m getting gloomy over this. It’s just that—well, I’ve been wondering if I’m getting too old for this sort of thing. My brain seems to be turning to mush. I can’t