Springtime for Summers

She looked shocked. "What are you saying?"

"Mrs. Summers, the man who we believe murdered Dr. Frankenwiener was responding to a personal advertisement which she placed in a gay newspaper. She categorized him as a crossdresser before she operated on him. This is a picture of Dr. Frankenwiener. Have you ever seen her?"

Sturgess handed her a crime scene photo of a woman with bulging eyes and a hideously distorted face. Raw red marks were distinctly visible on her neck. After looking at the photo, she handed it back to him with a frown. "Why are you showing this to me?"

Sturgess had watched her carefully as she studied the photo. "Because we believe, Mrs. Summers, that the man who did this to her was your husband."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because shortly after Dr. Frankenwiener was murdered, a woman named Patricia Summers turned up in Chicago. She moved into a single room occupancy hotel, and took a job as a waitress at a restaurant in Lincoln Park. I ask you again, have you been contacted by anyone on behalf of your husband?"

"No," she shouted, shaking with anger. "I still don't believe it was him. But if it was, that means he's here in Chicago, and he hasn't even told me he's alive. Oh God, it can't be true." She broke down into hysterical sobs, and Sturgess was visibly shaken.

"Mrs. Summers, we don't think he's still in Chicago. A few days before Arnold Nash was murdered, this Patricia Summers moved out of her hotel without leaving a forwarding address, and the day of the murder, she quit her job as a waitress. You haven't heard from her, and neither has anyone else. I'm sorry, but we had to ask you these questions."

She continued sobbing softly, looking up at both of them with red eyes. "Do you really think he's alive?"

"We don't know, Mrs. Summers. We have two unsolved murders, and a missing person on our hands. If you do hear from him, or her, you must contact us. Sergeant LaScala will let you know if there are any further developments."

She got up and started towards the door. They followed her, and when she opened it, she showed them out without a word. After she closed the door, she walked back into the living room and collapsed onto the sofa.

Anne peered down cautiously from the upstairs landing. "Are they gone?"

"They're gone," Pat said, kicking off her heels. "Your shoes are too tight."

Anne sat down next to Pat and started to rub her toes through her nylons. "We'll get you some new ones. I heard all of that. What a performance!"

"I've had lots of practice."

"I don't understand one thing. They said Patricia Summers disappeared in February."

"I figured the New York police might be looking for me, so while I was working as a waitress, some of the other girls showed me how to get false identity papers. They're mostly Mexican, you know, and it's pretty easy. So when I rented my apartment and started my job at Marshall Fields, I used my new name."

She shook her head. "Who is this mystery woman?"

"Cassandra Straight. You can call me Cass."

Anne gave her a cross-eyed look. "Cass Straight. Yuck! You’ll always be Pat to me."

Just then the doorbell rang. "Oh no, it must Lindy, getting dropped off from school. Pat, what do we tell her?"

"Let her in, please, Anne."

Anne opened the door, and their daughter skipped into the townhouse. She stopped short when she saw Pat, and stared at her for a moment. Then she cried out, "Daddy!" and ran towards her.

Pat kneeled down and took Lindy into her arms, smothering her with hugs and kisses. Finally Lindy pulled back and studied her intently. "You look pretty, Daddy. Can we play dress up every day?"