Ethel Reagan, the writer, noted the tips were telephoned from various locations across the country and provided by both men and women.
"Our Boston newspaper friend Ethel Reagan writes she's anxious to talk to the guy," she continued.
Ethel was once again making a daily print appearance, concentrating on the subject of mystic tips, and soliciting comments from law enforcement agencies.
The next day, Ethel Reagan reported in her Boston paper on a personal interview with Youngblood.
The article was penned by our old Boston nemesis, Ethel Reagan.
Ethel Reagan found none that fit her pattern being proved wrong.
Once I was alone again, I pondered my unilateral decision to speak directly to Ethel Reagan as I sipped on cold coffee.
Impatience prompted me to telephone Ethel Reagan before the allotted hour was up.
"She wants her anonymity," Ethel Reagan repeated.
I'm sure Ethel Reagan had a thousand more questions but she didn't press me.
Yes, Ethel confesses to appointment as the tipster's public representative and seems to be accepted as sorts, in the eyes of her growing public of readers.
I hadn't told him of our miss information ploy to Ethel Reagan.
To kill some time I telephoned Ethel Reagan, ostensibly to thank her.
I owed a follow up call to both Ethel Reagan at the Boston newspaper and Agnes Delanco, at After.
I told Agnes about my concerns for Ethel Reagan's safety.
I used the break in at Ethel Reagan's place as an excuse to have Howie visit both Boston burglaries.
He never got around to the guy who tried to enter Ethel Reagan's apartment.
How did you do on the attempted break-in at Ethel Reagan's place?
It was a Boston and I searched through it, searching to see if Ethel Reagan was still tracking the Psychic Tipster.
Ethel had moved on to a story of a new gambling ship sailing out of Lynn.
There was the customary group of tourists with names like Bud and Ethel and Elmer and Clara— names not assigned to anyone born after World War II.
Detective David Dean had been seeing Attorney Ethel Rosewater three or four times a month for more than two years.
He met Ethel at a cocktail party both were attending by obligation and neither were enjoying.
Small talk progressed to let's-go-someplace-else and before Dean knew it, he was between Ethel Rosewater's white silk sheets.
He recognized Ethel held the door in the relationship, be it the entrance or exit.
Ethel looked at him as if he'd proposed a trip to the moon, stating emphatically the only activity worthy of sweat would take place in her king size bed.
If Dean had been entirely honest with himself, he would have admitted he considered Ethel Rosewater a social-climbing, ambulance-chasing bitch.
Ethel would have listed him as a lazy, unambitious civil servant with a lifestyle as exciting as limp toast.
When Ethel did the inviting, the function was nearly always out of town.
Ethel was not attractive in spite of spending more money in the beauty salon and boutique than Dean's entire salary.
But in spite of her lack of beauty, Ethel Rosewater was hell on wheels in bed.
Ethel was an attorney who specialized in making money, so she never crossed paths with Dean's area of the law.
"Arthur asked me to marry him," Ethel pronounced as Dean struggled with an obstinate bra snap.
Ethel lived in the pride of Parkside, a new six-story luxury apartment building southeast of town.
Ethel always performed her lovemaking in a darkened room.
Instead of designer thongs or flimsy lace things, Ethel wore the plainest of cotton panties, the type described by past generations as 'practical.'
As Dean lay in the dark, he absentmindedly wondered if Ethel always wore "Thursday" when he came to call.
His mind kept thinking, not of Ethel, but of Cynthia Byrne.
The toilet flushed and Ethel returned, proceeded in the darkness by the tiny pinpoint light of her cigarette.
Although Ethel and Fred had never met, that didn't stop them from developing a strong mutual dislike, fueled via telephone messages and third-party comments.
He felt like a packaged pound of dog meat after slightly less than three hours sandwiched in his warm and comfortable bed between Ethel Rosewater's last frenzied spasm of pleasure and the screaming alarm clock.
Ethel Rosewater called to confirm Thursday night.
He scribbled Ethel Rosewater's name and address on a scrap of paper.
But no comparison to Ethel Rosewater need be made.
He called Ethel Rosewater first, catching her at the office.
"I'll bet," Ethel said sarcastically.
Dean wondered if they were speaking about the same Ethel Rosewater.
It was the same Ethel Rosewater.
It was Thursday evening and Dean showered and drove over to Ethel Rosewater's luxury apartment where the preliminaries seemed to move along even quicker than usual.
Later, partway through Act I, Dean asked, "Ethel, how come you always have sex with the lights out?"
Dean showered Ethel Rosewater from his body, shaved and dressed in a daze.
Are you going to marry Ethel Rosewater?
"Ethel and I are...good friends," he said, trying to look serious.
As the congregation filed out the door, Dean was surprised to see attorney Arthur Atherton, Ethel Rosewater's partner and Vinnie Baratto's lawyer, rise from two rows in front of him.
If you must know, Ethel couldn't make it to the service and thought the firm should be represented.
Mrs. Freeman and Carrie and Ethel and Frank and Helen came to station to meet us in a huge carriage.