Last Dance, Last Chance

there.
    Bertha Maude Lush, sole owner and proprietor of the Eldorado since her partner’s death 18 years earlier, had worked all her life to gain a modicum of security. Originally hired to take a man’s job during World War II, Bertha was in the wave of women personified as “Rosie the Riveter.” She rode the bus to work at the Boeing Airplane Company every day until she’d put in enough years as a mechanic to retire.
    In May 1974, Bertha was in her 60s, and she had never married. She was a loner, devoting all her energies to keeping her motel going; the travelers she dealt with were enough company for her. She had a car, an old white Studebaker, but she never drove it any more. She even banked by mail. Maybe it was because she had begun to be afraid—although she hated to admit it.
    But she was a woman alone, dealing with strangers every day of her life, in an era when the small-business person had abundant reason to be afraid. Mom-and-pop grocery stores and small motels were robbed frequently.
    Bertha Lush’s neighbors kept an eye on her, noticing when the “No Vacancy” went on at night and the office lights dimmed, but they tried not to let her know that they were watching over her. She was fiercely independent, and she wouldn’t have liked it.
    Only Bertha’s closest relative knew that she kept a gun hidden in a clothes hamper behind the office. She had never had to use it. When the time came that she needed it, she didn’t even get the chance to reach for the gun.
    The weekend of May 18–19 was a national holiday in Canada, and Bertha Lush had welcomed many familiar guests on Saturday. These preferred customers, along with some new clients, filled all the units by 3 P.M. and allowed Bertha to turn the “No Vacancy” sign on early.
    It was much later—a quarter after ten that night—when one of the guests pounded on the door of the manager’s office. He had returned to the motel to find his unit double-locked, and he needed Bertha’s master key to get in. But no one responded to his knock. Exasperated, he peered through the glass. He didn’t see Bertha, but the lights were on, and his eyes were drawn to a scarlet smear along the pale aqua wall inside.
    It was such a large stain that he ran to a nearby pay phone and called the police.
    Patrol officers responding to the motel found the door to the office firmly locked, but they could see evidence of a violent struggle inside. They asked the police radio dispatcher to call the motel’s phone. They could hear it ringing, but no one answered. The officers broke out a pane of glass in the door to gain entry.
    There was no one in the office, no one behind the counter. The officers opened a door leading to the rear area and stopped. They could see now why the phone had rung unanswered. A woman lay motionless just inside the door, the back of her head virtually destroyed. The three patrolmen shut the door and put in a call to homicide detectives.
    Detective Sergeant Ward Dutcher and Detectives P. R. Forsell, George Cuthill, and Jess Cook responded. They worked their way into the crime scene gradually, careful to stick to a narrow path so they wouldn’t contaminate any evidence that might be there. First, they looked at the outer office. Ironically, a cross hung on one wall bearing the inscription “Peace to All Who Enter Here.”
    Next to it hung a scroll with a prayer often known as the Serenity Prayer, used by Alcoholics Anonymous, but also cherished by many people seeking tranquility:
    God Grant Us the Serenity
    to accept the things we cannot change,
    Courage to change the things we can, and the
    Wisdom to know the difference
    Both sentiments were now spattered and streaked with what must surely be blood. If the woman who lay facedown in the living quarters was Bertha Lush, she would never again be able to change anything. When the guest who had called police described the motel owner-manager, there was no doubt that the dead woman inside was Bertha Lush; she still wore the green house dress, blue sweater, and white shoes she had worn when the man checked in. The witness said Bertha had given him his change from her black leather wallet, which had quite a bit of money in it at that time.
    The black wallet now lay beside the dead woman, and it was empty. The motive for her murder was obvious. So was the weapon: a blood-encrusted ball peen hammer rested against the victim’s right leg.
    This was going to be one of those investigations rife with