SIXTEENTHE WALRUS-MUSTACHED barman had no leisure for TV viewing. He was holding spellbound a half-dozen Ye Olde Crowe’s Neste customers. They looked as though they might be regulars, and if so, they would have seen or heard Dottie Vonn around. So I got into the huddle and bowed my head over a beer glass to avoid the barmaid’s glance. It was not necessary to ask many questions.
Walrus-Mustache had been the one who unlocked the door and found the suicide note, and he was telling about it: “It said she had lost the only man she could ever have loved, and had lost her baby, and none of us would ever see her any more.”
The note seemed to have made no direct mention of an intention to drown herself.
“But how often I watched her by the window here,” the barman continued. “She’d be gazing towa
