The wallet contained a picture of her, a photographer’s portrait in which she wore a light, tailored suit, MacIver’s most recent driver’s license, without citations, a Social Security card, an identification card giving his last address and Norma as the person to notify in case of an accident, two postage stamps stuck back to back and, stuffed deep in a pocket, a small piece of paper on which was typewritten, “The more fun had, the more people killed.” Norma had not seen it before. To Leland it looked like a gag saying MacIver had picked up from one of his clients. Businessmen loved to pass around such junk.

There was a calendar, a library card, a Red Cross card dating from MacIver’s college days certifying him as an Intermediate swimmer. There were no business cards. None at all. Leland returned the wallet to Norma and told her what the track guard had said about the building contractor’s card.

“There were others, too,” Leland said. “The police recognized something and the decision was made to clean out all the cards. They palmed them. It looks like a precautionary move—they didn’t want to connect someone with a suicide.”

“There could have been a note,” she said.

“The guard saw it all when the wallet was opened. No notes.”

“Isn’t this something we have to report?”

“We have only the guard’s testimony. He would have to be willing to give it under oath. His employers could advise against it. They have to live in Clausen County. We’re going to have to wait and see what it all means.”

“We’re not getting any answers. It’s terribly draining on me. What about that little slip of paper with the joke on it?”

“It’s not worth thinking about. We would be wasting our time if we tracked it down.”

“If he had been saving it for me, he forgot. It’s a little grim now.” She stacked the empty cups and saucers. “Is there anything else?”

“No. I’ll be leaving first thing tomorrow to fly back to Manitou. Lunch with Betty Kaminsky. I’ll be down here again by four o’clock.”

“Take the car and leave it at the airport I won’t be needing it. Do you want anything? I’m going to bed, if you don’t mind. I’ll probably read; I just want to get under the covers.”

“Okay. Good night, kid.”

She stopped at the door. “Did you call your wife yet? If you plan to, I wish you’d do it here. I’ll be upstairs, and honestly, I haven’t got the strength to try to listen in.”

“All right, I’ll call from here. Good night.”

“Good night, Joe.”