On the next page were more press clippings on the case.  Some, I noticed, were from papers besides The Chapman Chronicle.  They merely repeated each other: no clues why the murder had occurred, no leads on any suspects. 

At the bottom of the third page, my great-grandmother had written another note.  It was dated March 25, 1950:

The newspapers all say the same thing.  No one has any idea why Forrester  was killed and no knows who killed him.  What they’re not saying is that the afternoon Forrester died, he was wearing that awful yellow shirt  he loved so much.  The foolish man, that garment was horrid.  It hurt one’s eyes to gaze upon it.  There’s simply no accounting for some people’s taste.  Forrester had none, I’ve always thought as much.  At any rate, the information about the shirt has purposely been withheld from public knowledge.  Of course I know but I’m not talking.        

I once more read Vera’s words.  If she were right about the shirt, how did she know?  My thoughts were disrupted by the ringing of my cell phone.