Sheila tried calling Michael once more, but as she picked up his answer message, a call with a Colorado area code came in on her phone.
"Hello."
"Yes, this is Marilyn Picoletti. You left a message I should call you."
"Thank you, Mrs Picoletti. I'm so glad you called."
"If this is about my husband or the murders I won't talk about that."
"No. I want to ask about his guitar." There was a silence of several seconds.
"Marilyn?"
"Yes, I'm here. What do you want to know about it."
"My husband was on a business trip in Denver and he bought it."
More silence, then "and why are you calling me?"
"I wanted to ask you. Why did you sell it to Podgor's Music? It must have meant a lot to your husband."
Sheila thought the laugh Mrs Picoletti gave was sharp, derisive. "He made me promise I would keep it. I couldn't keep that promise."
"Listen, Mrs Picoletti. My husband seems obsessed with the guitar and, I don't know how to say this, it feels evil, cursed."
Mrs Picoletti's voice was calmer as she asked "what is the guitar doing?" and this struck Sheila as a very odd way to put things.
"The other night, Marilyn, " said Sheila, "I thought I could hear it play by itself, when Michael was no where near it."
Mrs Picoletti made a quick shocked "Oh!" then "God forgive me", almost in a whisper.
"Marilyn?"
"Listen Mrs Huber. You must destroy the guitar. I will tell you as simply as I can what happened to him, to us.

We were yard-sale hopping on a Sunday afternoon in an old section of Denver and we saw the sign for an Estate Sale. We looked at all of the old furniture, silverware, paintings, and I was feeling very sad. It was if someone's life had been fragmented and scattered on the lawn for strangers to pick through. Then Joe called to me, and I went over to find him looking at that guitar. I hated it right from the start, but he smiled at me and said 'I always wanted to learn to play. Isn't it beautiful?' And so we bought it.
You must understand something about Joe, and I know people who knew murderers all say the same thing....you know, he was the nicest man. Who would have thought? But I swear to you there was never a better man. He was kind, we raised four kids together, two of them daughters. He never raised his hand to them.." and she began to sob.
"I'm sorry, Mrs Picoletti."
"No. Let me go on. He began to change. At first he treated the guitar as a novelty, strumming it on the odd occasion. It always sounded...it was such a strange sound.."
"I know, Marilyn."
"Soon Joe was sitting up nights and I could hear him playing, singing in a voice that sounded nothing like him. He began to neglect his business, and our son, his partner, began to say 'Mama, I know Dad must be sick' and I couldn't tell him that Joe had hit me. Do you know what it is like to live with a man for thirty years, and have him become a stranger in a matter of weeks? We went to counselling where I talked and he sat, quiet and angry.
He began to go out and stay out at night for hours. I suppose that went on for two or three months. He must have been...the police think he was.."
"You don't have to go on, Marilyn."
"Truly, there isn't much more. He said if anything were to happen, I should take care of the guitar. The only thing of his I didn't want, Mrs Huber. But I couldn't, don't you understand? When it was in the house, it was like the only bad part of that man had been left there with me. Lord, I was frightened to even have it locked away in a trunk in the basement. And you are right....Mrs Huber, it never stops playing!"