“Tell me,” said Sheriff Joe Williams, “why you think your copy of Moby Dick got stolen and why you thought a missing book was important enough for you to call me.” He pointed at a volume on the nearby coffee table. “Isn’t this it, right here?”
Detective Max Huntington moved to another part of the victim’s living room, as he considered the crime from a new angle.
Bethany Sharples made a beautiful corpse, if the sight of a woman dead well before what should have been her time could be called beautiful. Her long, light blonde hair draped like a shimmering waterfall over the back of the sofa.
My wails had subsided into hiccups, but my fraternal twin brother, Sterling, continued to grip my right hand with a strength that testified to his determination.
“She ain’t no kind of witness,” growled our Granddaddy Abraham. “Ain’t no court of law that’ll take her word as legal testimony.”