RANSVESTIA

"I'd like to talk to you about your wife if you don't mind," said Hamilton gently.

"Sure," Ewell couldn't look at him in the eyes. He sat down on the edge of a chesterfield, the window behind him.

"How was she affected by the death of Darlene Draper?" asked the detective.

"Oh, it was a terrible shock to us both," said Ewell, staring at the overturned picture. "We were both very upset to think such a thing could happen here."

"You heard about it when?" asked Hamilton.

"Betty told me," said Ewell, looking up in surprise. "We'd got home late from the cabaret. I'd put my ... my dress on its hanger, and I... I was in my nightie when I found I'd left my purse in the cabaret. Betty went back for it, and I got into bed."

"What time was that?" asked Hamilton.

"A little before two," said Ewell, after a pause to think. "I dozed a bit, but Betty woke me and told me about the murder. I put on her dressing gown," his eyes had brightened with unshed tears at the thought, "and we went back to the cabaret. There was such a big crowd, we came back and after a while we got some sleep. Sheriff Gantsby," his lips became a thin line, "talked at us in the morning and kept us cooped up in the shacks."

"Why did Betty go out?"

"I honestly don't know," Ewell looked directly at Hamilton. "I was tired, so I took a nap about four. Kim woke me with the news." The tears brimmed against his lower, red eyelids, threatening to overflow at any moment.

Hamilton nodded sympathetically. “I see,” he said slowly. "By the way, Mr. Ewell, how long had you been married?"

"Two years," said Bob Ewell, reaching for a handkerchief. "We came here three or four times a year." He gave Hamilton a furtive glance.

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