"Did you speak with dear, sweet Mr. Shipton?" she asked.
"Naw, just his mother. He's too busy making money, I guess. She said she'd arrange for you to box it up. She'll pay you for your trouble."
"If he paid us for all the 'trouble' they caused us, we'd be rich," Dean muttered.
"So we're supposed to find boxes and do the packing, too?" Cynthia asked.
"Yup. There's more in the car." Between bites he added, "I even brought the white dress. I thought the old man might want it."
Cynthia gave a shiver. "I certainly don't want it. Besides, it belongs to Edith-or her family-or her estate-or someone. Not us. She paid for it."
And died in it, Dean wanted to add.
"Shipton doesn't want it. He said so."
"You talked to him?" Dean asked, as Weller eyed a second piece of pie.
"Only back when I told him his wife was dead. Lucky me. I get all the shit jobs-pardon me, ma'am. He didn't want the dress. He said the whole song and dance about his wife acting like that other woman gave him the willies."
"How did he take the news of her death?"
"Once I located him, about as you'd expect-shocked, couldn't believe it, blah, blah, blah. I finally got a hold of him at the airport in Richmond that afternoon. We talked about him coming out here but he begged off. He called back later and left word that he was staying in Virginia and he'd arranged with a Montrose funeral home to have her cremated."
"He certainly won't be missed at Bird Song," Dean said.
"Yeah," said Weller. "Good riddance to 'em both." He added, "I'm sorry the missus killed herself but she was a looney from the word go. You never knew what to believe of when she opened her mouth. I even hear from the grapevine, there's some question she was pregnant."
"Wasn't there an autopsy?" Dean asked.
"Yeah, but I hear it didn't report anything except she wasn't a druggie and was sober."
"Can't we talk about something else," Cynthia said. "That whole business is too depressing. I'm trying to forget it."
Dean helped Weller carry the remaining articles into Bird Song. The collection was made up of Shipton's newly purchased, barely used, ice climbing gear, ropes, ice axes, pitons and various garments. Fred O'Connor strolled up just as Dean finished. He'd just returned from visiting sun-tanned Miss Worthington. Fred offered to go up to Duckett's Market for boxes and give up closet space to temporarily store the large pile. Not, Dean surmised, out of a sense of charity as much as a severe case of nosiness.