Monica Cutler had performed every duty but setting type at the Parkside Sentinel for the past 20 years. Four years ago, she and Dean were a weekly item, as they say. But no comparison to Ethel Rosewater need be made. Monica was a sweetheart who never said an unkind word about a soul. Dean often wondered to himself why their romantic attraction to one another never grew to something permanent. Perhaps the time was wrong. In any event, they remained as they always had been, the very best of friends.
Monica ended their romance immediately after meeting Harry Turnball, a young and energetic truck driver who delivered the Parkside Sentinel. They married within weeks and Monica was set for a lifetime of martial happiness until, six months into her marriage, she was diagnosed with cancer, which began to ravage her body. It pained Dean to see her 30 pounds thinner, wearing an ill fitting wig in place of her waist-length ebony hair, but her indomitable spirit continued to leave him in awe.
He gave the frail woman a hug and described the reason for his visit.
"What detective story did the old gent pull that one out of?" she said with a smile.
"He claims he thought it up himself," Dean answered.
"It makes a certain amount of sense. Do you think Byrne skipped?"
"No. Just the opposite. I'm really just humoring Fred- rewarding him for his first idea in years that isn't totally harebrained."
"How far back do you want me to check?"
"He disappeared on Tuesday. The last day or so, I guess," Dean answered.
"If I were planning on dumping Harry and leaving town, I'd work at it longer than that! That stuff takes planning. Let's go back three months," she said with a twinkle in her eye. "We'll give old Fred something to do-besides chasing widows around Parkside."
A check of the records listed 22 individuals who had ordered the paper from out of town over the last three months. Four of these customers had since canceled their subscription and four more were personally known to Monica. Dean started to copy the names but Monica stopped him. She took a plain sheet of white paper from her desk and proceeded with flying fingers to type the 14 names and addresses using an old manual typewriter.
"It keeps me in shape," she said over her shoulder. "And reminds me of the old days. Newspaper offices should have typewriters, not those damn computers. They make life too easy. You get soft."
There was a pause after she stood up and handed him the paper. "How are you really doing, Monica?" Dean asked.