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The Death of Amelia Marsh: A Sally Nimitz Mystery (Book 1)


The Death of Amelia Marsh
A Sally Nimitz Mystery
(Book 1)
Copyright ©2012 MaryJo Dawson
Don’t miss the rest of the Sally Nimitz Mystery Series
Also available:
The Disappearance of Douglas White
A Sally Nimitz Mystery
(Book 2)
This book is dedicated to my grandson, Malachi,
who likes to read, and to write, just as I do.
My gratitude to my husband, Bill,
without whose computer expertise this book would never have happened!
Also, I so much appreciate his encouragement.
And, also, thanks to my sister and my friends,
who enjoyed this story from the beginning.
A special thanks to Vangie,
because she believed my efforts were worth publishing.
Chapter One
Mrs. Marsh didn’t answer the doorbell. I knew she was there; she had, in fact, asked me to come by. It was
two o’clock in the afternoon. I rang again and waited a full minute. Her arthritis might keep her from getting to
the door in a timely manner. As I walked slowly back to my own apartment I wondered if I should be worried
about her. She was eighty, after all. But she might have forgotten about our appointment. She might very well
have fallen asleep and did not hear the doorbell. Mrs. Marsh was not extremely deaf but her hearing was no
longer sharp, either.
In the end I decided to wait an hour. If she had dozed off that would give her time to wake up and call me
first. An hour was a good amount of time to get my bathrooms cleaned. Putting in three straight twelve-hour
shifts had seriously interfered with my domestic schedule. It was a puzzle how living alone most of the time I
could still manage to make a mess of both of my bathrooms. I hate dirty bathrooms. But, a full hour set them
right with some time left over for the kitchen. With a feeling of accomplishment I went to the telephone and
rang Mrs. Marsh’s number.
She didn’t answer the phone and my uneasiness grew. I let the ringing go on for a while, wondering what my
next move should be. This elderly neighbor and I had been casually friendly for about six months. It began
when one of her towels escaped from her clothesline and landed in my patio. I returned the towel and stayed for
a cup of tea. She fascinated me, not only because of her old fashioned hairdo and handmade sweaters, and not
only because of her English accent and manners, but also because of her lifestyle which was an intriguing mix
of the modern and the past. She hung most of her laundry outside, no matter how cold it was, and hung the rest
to dry on a large wooden rack in her spare bedroom. She had her groceries delivered from the one grocer in
town who offered the service, but she drove herself to the hairdresser and to church every week. The added
expense of grocery delivery did not bother her at all, but she refused to indulge in such frivolities as an
 
 
 
 
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