Mary's hair still had that silver glow and she still had that turquoise evening gown, but it now stained with dark red patches. The dark brown table still held her manuscript and the letter. Clancey took time to phone the coroner and his superior and blinked his eyes.
"The letter was gone!"
Yesterday at the pub, he was talking to his companions about Mrs. Phenni's trouble with the rental agency. Ethan tried to strain his mind, trying to think of someone listening with overly intentness. He knew that his friends just yawned and made suggestions about Ombudsmen, What about her relatives? Surely she has a son or daughter some place? If it were my mother, I'd…
Mary Phenni had a lot of trouble and now she was dead. The murderer apparently was someone she knew. No forced entry. Well that always is the case. Clancey went over the room again. The faded rose chenille cover and the white bleached pillows with the embroidered red carnations and dark green leaves covered the double sized bed. A pocket book with the name "Sweet Surrender" lay on the small round table. Its gaudy cover of a blonde woman being caressed by a dark hair hunk, contrasted with the pale gray finish of the antique furniture.
What do women see in this romantic stuff? Mary was a widow and her marriage was not much worse than most. Maybe her daughter gave it to her. He went into the kitchen. Mary had prepared her supper, a small tin of stew, a couple of potatoes and an attempt at a salad, that is, head lettuce, tomatoes, and French Dressing. No green onions. Then he remembered today was the fourteenth. She would be getting her pension check tomorrow.
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