“Mrs. McTigue,” I ventured. Her eyes were as vulnerable and uncertain as a child’s. “I wonder if I might see that photograph again? The one you showed me last time I was here.”
She blinked several times, her smile thin and pale like a scar.
“The one of Beryl Madison,” I added.
“Why, certainly,” she said, slowly getting up, an air of resignation about her as she went to the secretary to fetch it. Fear, or maybe it was merely confusion, registered on her face when she handed me the photograph and I also asked to see the envelope and sheet of creamy folded paper.
I knew instantly by the feel of it that the paper was twenty-pound weight, and when I tilted it toward the lamp I saw the Crane’s watermark, translucent in the high-quality rag. I briefly glanced at the photograph, and by now Mrs. McTigue looked thoroughly bewildered.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know you must be wondering what on earth I’m doing.”
She was at a loss for words.
“I’m curious. The photograph looks much older than the stationery.”
“It is,” she replied, her frightened eyes not leaving me. “I found the photograph among Joe’s papers and tucked it in the envelope for safekeeping.”
“This is your stationery?”
I asked as benignly as possible.
“Oh, no.”
She reached for her juice and carefully sipped. “It was my husband’s, but I did pick it out for him. A very nice engraved stationery for his business, you see. After he passed on, I kept only the blank second sheets and envelopes. I have more than I’ll ever use.”
There was no way to ask her without being direct.
“Mrs. McTigue, did your husband have a typewriter?”
“Why, yes. I gave it to my daughter. She lives in Falls Church. I always write my letters out in longhand. Not so many anymore, because of my arthritis.”
“What kind of typewriter?”
“Dear me. I don’t recall except that it’s electric and fairly new,” she stammered. “Joe would trade it in on a new one every few years. You know, even when these computers came out, he insisted on handling his correspondence the way he always had. Burt–that was his office manager–urged foe for years to start using the computer, but Joe always had to have his typewriter.”
“At home or in his office?” I asked.
“Why, both. He often stayed up late working on things in his office at home.”
“Did he correspond with the Harpers, Mrs. McTigue?”
She had slipped a tissue out of a pocket of her robe and was twisting it in her fingers.
“I’m sorry to ask you so many questions,” I persisted gently.
She stared down at her gnarled, thin-skinned hands and said nothing.
“Please,” I said quietly. “It’s important or I wouldn’t ask.”
“It’s about her, isn’t it?”
The tissue was shredding and she wouldn’t look up.
“Sterling Harper.”
“Yes.”
“Please tell me, Mrs. McTigue.”
“She was very lovely. And so gracious. A very fine lady,” Mrs. McTigue said.
“Did your husband correspond with Miss Harper?”
I asked.
“I’m quite sure he did.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I came in on him once or twice when he was writing a letter. He always said it was business.”
I said nothing.
“Yes. My Joe.”
She smiled, her eyes dead. “Such a ladies’ man. You know, he always kissed a lady’s hand and made her feel the queen.”
“Did Miss Harper write to him as well?” I asked hesitantly, for I did not enjoy irritating an old wound.
“Not that I’m aware.”
“He wrote her but she never returned his letters?”
“Joe was a man of letters. He always said he would write a book someday. He was always reading something, don’t you know.”
“I can see why he would enjoy Gary Harper so much,” I commented.
“Quite often when Mr. Harper was frustrated, he would call. I suppose writer’s block is the term. He would call Joe and they would talk about the most interesting things. Literature and whatnot.”
The tissue was little bits of twisted paper in her lap. “Joe’s favorite was Faulkner, if you can imagine. He was also quite fond of Hemingway and Dostoyevski. When we were courting, I lived in Arlington and he was here. He would write me the most beautiful letters you can imagine.”