A Deadly Judgment by Jessica Fletcher

police go about their crime scene investigation. It wasn’t easy looking at Ms. Warren’s body. She’d shed a great deal of blood from the wound in the center of her chest. The knife, which was on the floor beside her, had undoubtedly pierced her heart. Death would surely have been immediate.
    I thought of Jack Brannigan’s murder. From the reports I’d read, he, too, had died from a single knife wound to the chest.
    I gave my statement, and was left alone after that to casually wander about the living room, wondering when someone would tell me to leave. No one did. Ritchie Fleigler was chain smoking on the front porch and talking into his cellular phone.
    I scrutinized a row of framed pictures on the fireplace mantel. Cynthia was in all of them, Billy Brannigan in some. There were photographs on tables and on the wall, which I also took in. There’s something especially powerful about pictures of someone who has just died, especially if that death was sudden and unexpected. How tragic, I thought. Cynthia Warren had been a beautiful young woman, her smile worthy of Hollywood. Tan and blond, she had a girl-next-door freshness about her. So did some of her friends in the photos. One girl appeared in a number of shots. She caught my eye because her dark Mediterranean sensuousness was in stark contrast to Cynthia’s fairness. Another beautiful young woman. The world was full of them.
    I paid special attention to the pictures that included Billy Brannigan. He looked happy enough, although I could sense a strain in his expression. Probably uncomfortable having his picture taken, I thought, like many people, me included.
    Aware that no one seemed interested in me, I strolled into the kitchen. A pale blue gingham tablecloth hung neatly over a small table, surrounded by four hand-painted wooden chairs with cushions that matched the cloth. Delicate white lace valance curtains graced the windows. Yesterday’s newspaper, open to the entertainment section, sat on a white countertop. An open box of SnackWell’s devil food cookies was next to it. Two of the cookies were missing. A thoroughly rinsed single glass and plate were in the sink.
    I almost leaned on the counter but caught myself in time. The last thing I wanted to do was compromise evidence with my palm or fingerprints.
    My next stop was the den. Cynthia had wonderful decorator taste. This room, like the rest of the downstairs, was light, airy, and casual. Soft floral prints of red and yellow on an overstuffed couch and armchairs were inviting. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined one wall. Built into them was a huge projection television set and an elaborate stereo. Matching oversized forest-green leather recliners provided screening-room comfort for two.
    What was especially appealing was the view from a large bay window, aptly named because it overlooked the bay.
    The books in the bookcases didn’t appear to have been placed in any particular order—alphabetically, or by size or topic. Like people who peek into medicine cabinets when visiting other’s homes, I peruse books. While you may not be able to judge a book by its cover, you can often judge a person by his or her collection of books. Cynthia’s literary taste ran to Tom Wolfe’s Bonfire of the Vanities; Thoreau’s Cape Cod; Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus; Amy Tan’s The Kitchen God’s Wife; Paris Trout ; Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night; Agatha Christie’s The Man in the Brown Suit; the Sand and Foam by Kahlil Gibran; and Coffee, Tea or Me?, that frothy little tale of airline stewardesses (they call them flight attendants now) from twenty-five years ago. The entire bottom row of the shelves housed travel guides. Cynthia Warren was certainly eclectic in what she chose to read.
    I was drawn to a small wooden table with a glass top on the other side of the room, on which was displayed an unusual piece of pottery, pre-Colombian in appearance, but modem at the same time. The potter had made good use of