Dean's silence acknowledged his agreement.
"I guess it boils down to a case of doing what's right in spite of the consequences," Fred said, sounding like the old philosopher. He poured a cup of cold coffee from the pot and picked up Mrs. Lincoln in one arm, interrupting her licking the remains of a bowl of chocolate pudding. He sat at the kitchen table, sipping the cold coffee and patting the cat. "You can't be blamed if I keep doing a little snooping, independent like."
Dean took a deep breath, unsure. "Just telephone stuff- nothing public unless there's proof. Factual truth. If we hit a dead end, it's a dead issue. I'm not going to open this up-to anyone- and cause Cynthia Byrne years of doubt on suspicions, no matter how strong our feelings become."
"Fair enough," Fred answered. "Now, let's work on the premise Byrne didn't drown and start trying to find where he is instead of pretending he didn't skip!" Fred could hardly contain his excitement.
Dean smiled in spite of himself as Fred swept the kitchen table clear of cups and cat, dropping a bulky folder and spilling its paper contents. "Now, the way I see it, there's three ways to prove Byrne's alive-fingerprints, positive ID, or handwriting."
"Or," Dean said, "prove he's dead."
"Scranton's the answer," Fred said, ignoring Dean. "I'll check it out real good on Monday. Until we can prove Cleary isn't Byrne, let's assume he is. Cleary must have done something in Scranton that leaves a trail. That's probably where he bought the motor home."
"We don't even know the motor home is his."
"That's what I plan to find out when I go to Scranton."
"How will you get to Scranton? You don't have a driver's license."
"I take the dad-gum bus to Atlantic City-I sure can take one to Scranton."
A thought struck Dean and he snapped his fingers. "Call Mrs. Glass back. I've got an idea." Fred looked at him. "Go ahead. If I call her at this time of night, she'll bite my head off but she thinks you're the cat's pajamas. She should have received the key back from Cleary. Ask her where the envelope was postmarked."
Fred smiled. "Gotcha! Cleary mailed it before he knew we were looking for him! He'd have no reason to cover his tracks!" Fred began to dial. "Why do you suppose he mailed it back at all? He could have just tossed it in the drink." "Why not? He had no reason to antagonize Mrs. Glass and have her upset with him."
Fred was so sticky-sweet on the phone with the landlady that Dean took a break and used the john just so he wouldn't have to listen to the dribble. When he returned, Fred was holding down a pad of paper with his elbow and writing with his free hand. Dean looked over his shoulder, expecting to see a local postmark but read, written in block letters, Rollins, Kansas. While Fred continued his conversation, Dean rummaged through the front hall closet until he located an atlas. He was thumbing through the pages when Fred leaned over to him.