He was wrapped in satin, lustrous black. He invited me in. I didn’t know what to do just then. I was here to conduct business, but surely he couldn’t have thought . . .
I crossed the threshold of the very large residence wearing a plastered smile, in apology for my hesitation. He took my briefcase, my coat and scarf and hat. I felt suddenly naked as he led me into this cozy nook, lit only by fire and candles.
My heart stopped then, along with my step. The septuagenarian pretended not to notice the trepidation which, by now, had clearly written over any other language my body might have been speaking until then.
He walked toward me with a poured glass of wine in his hand, and without a single word, leaned to kiss me. But just then two cats – they must be his, I imagine – ran through the room and between his legs. The wine flew out of his hands. He fell over. He must have hit his head . . .
“And so you contend his death was an accident, Ms. Harper? Is that it?” The detective wasn’t buying it. Hmm...