"Excellent," Delaney said.
"Wait a minute until I get pen and paper… Okay, what have you got?"
"Everything goes to his wife, Diane, except for some specific bequests.
Twenty thousand to his alma mater, ten to his father, five to Doctor Samuelson, one thousand to his receptionist, Carol Judd, and small sums to the super of the townhouse, the Polish couple who work for the Ellerbees up in Brewster, and a few others. That's about it. Nothing that might be the motive for murder that I can see."
"Doesn't sound like it," Delaney said slowly.
"The widow's got plenty of her own. I can't see her chilling him for a little more."
"I agree," Parnell said.
"The only thing interesting in the will is that Ellerbee specifically cancels all debts owed to him by his patients. Apparently some of the screwballs were strictly slow-pay, if not deadbeats.
Well, Ellerbee's will wipes the slate clean. That was decent of him."
"Yes," Delaney said thoughtfully, "decent. And a little unusual, wouldn't you say?"
"Oh, I don't know," Daddy Warbucks said.
"Everyone says he was a great guy. Always helping people. This sounds right in character."
"Uh-huh," Delaney said.
"Well, thank you very much.
You've been a big help, and I'll make sure Chief Suarez knows about it."
"It couldn't hurt," Detective Parnell said.
After Delaney hung up, he stared at the notes he had jotted down. He pondered a long while. Then, sighing, he reached for his "agony list" of unsolved puzzles. He added -a fourth item under Minor riddles: Why did Dr. Ellerbee cancel his patients' debts?
And, having done that, he tramped gloomily into the kitchen, hoping to find the makings of a prodigious_ sandwich that might relieve his depression.
Detective Brian Estrella was also thinking of food. Since his wife, Meg, had been in the hospital and nursing home, he had been baching it and hating every minute. He was unused to solitude, and a real klutz when it came to cooking and household chores.
He had what he considered a brainstorm: He called Sylvia Mae Otherton on Friday night and suggested, with some diffidence, that they have dinner together. He would find a Chinese take-out joint and buy enough food for both of them. All Sylvia would have to supply would be hot tea. She thought it was a marvelous idea.
Estrella bought egg rolls, barbecued ribs, noodles, wanton soup, shrimp in lobster sauce, fried rice, sweet-and-sour pork, fortune cookies, and pistachio ice cream. Everything was packed in neat cardboard containers, and they even put in plastic forks and spoons, paper napkins.
It was-like a picnic, with all the opened containers on the cocktail table along with cups of hot tea Sylvia provided.
They agreed it was just the kind of spicy, aromatic food to have on a cold winter night with a hard wind rattling the windows and flurries of snow glistening in the streetlight.
The detective didn't neglect to compliment Sylvia on how attractive she looked, and indeed she had done much to improve her appearance. Her hair was washed and coiffed in a loose, fluffy cut. The excess makeup was gone, and the garish costume replaced by a simple shirtwaist.
More important. her manner had undergone a transformation. She seemed at once confident and relaxed. She smiled and laughed frequently, and told Estrella she had gone out that afternoon and spent two hours shopping, going from store to store -something she hadn't done since Dr. Ellerbee died.
"That's wonderful," the detective said.
"See, you can do it.
You should try to get out of the house every day, even if it's only for a few minutes."
"I intend to," Otherton said firmly.
"I'm going to take charge of my life.
And I owe it all to you."
"Me? What did I do?"
"You cared. You have no idea how important that was to me. They finished everything and cleared away the empty containers. Then Sylvia asked about Estrella's wife, and he told her the doctors didn't hold out much hope, but Meg was in good spirits and spoke optimistically of coming home soon.
"I think she knows she's not going to do that," the detective said in a low voice, "but she tries to keep cheerful so I don't get depressed."
"She sounds like a wonderful woman, Brian."
"Yes. She is."
Then, before he knew it, he was telling Sylvia all about Meg, their life together, the child they had lost (leukemia), and how sometimes Estrella wondered how he was going to get through the rest of his life without his wife.
He poured it all out, realizing now how lonely he had been and how he had been hoping to tell someone how he felt. It was a kind of tribute to Meg: public acknowledgment of the happiness she had given him.
Sylvia listened intently, only asking sympathetic questions, until Estrella was done, They were sitting close together on the couch and, halfway through his recital, she took his hand and held it tightly, She wasn't coming on to him; he knew that. Just offering the comfort of her physical presence, and he was grateful.
When he had finished, he raised her hand and lightly kissed her fingertips.
"Well…" he said, "that's the sad story of my life. Forgive me for making you listen to all this. I know you have your own problems,"
"I only wish I could help you," she said sorrowfully.
"You've helped me so much. Now let's have an after-dinner drink." She rose to bring the decanter from an omate Korean cupboard.
"Oh," she said, "pardon me a moment; I have to make a short phone call."
The reproduction of a fin de siicle French phone was on a small, marble-topped Victorian stand. She dialed a three-digit number.
"Charles?" she said.
"This is Sylvia Mae -Otherton. How are you tonight?… Good… Fine, thank you… Anything for me today?… Thank you, Charles. Good night."
She came back to Estrella with the sherry.
"No mail today," she said lightly.
"Not even a bill."
He stared at her. Then he glanced at his wristwatch. Fourteen minutes after nine. He put his pipe aside.
"Sylvia," he said in a strained voice, "was that the guy at the lobby desk you were talking to?"
"Yes, that was Charles. He works nights. I called to ask if there's any mail in my box. It saves me a trip downstairs. My agoraphobia again!"
"You call him every night to check on your mail?"
"Yes. Why do you ask?"
"You always call about this time?"
"Usually. But why-" She stopped, her eyes widened, her mouth fell open.
One hand flew to cover it.
"Oh, God!" she gasped'you told us you hadn't made any phone calls that night."
"I forgot!" she wailed.
"It's a regular habit, a routine, and I forgot. Oh, Brian, I'm so sorry.
But I'm sure I called Charles that night."
"I'll be right back," Estrella said.
"Keep your fingers crossed.
He went down to the lobby, identified himself, and talked to Charles for almost five minutes. The clerk swore that Sylvia Otherton called about her mail between 9:00 and 9:30 every weekday evening.
"A lot of the tenants do that," he said.
"Especially the older ones. Saves them a trip downstairs. And I don't mind. Things are slow around here at night, and it gives me someone to talk to, something to do."
"Does Otherton ever miss calling you?"
"Not that I remember. Every night during the week, like clockwork."
"Between, say, nine and nine-thirty?"
"That's right."
"Do you remember her calling on a Friday night four weeks ago-the night of that terrific rainstorm?"
"I can't remember that particular night. All I know is that she hasn't missed a night since I been working here, and that's almost three years now." … Thank you, Charles." Upstairs again, Estrella said, "Sylvia, as far as I'm concerned, you're cleared-and that's what I'm going to put in my report."