Margo observed. We sat in the living room of the little Wheeler Road Cape where she was conducting an open house. When we left the diner, Strutter had hustled off to release her sixteen-year-old son Charlie from babysitting his pre-school-age sister Olivia. Armando had decided to put in a few hours of paperwork time at the TeleCom offices, so I’d opted to keep Margo company during what promised to be a slow afternoon. As expected during the week between Christmas and New Year’s, lookers were almost nonexistent, but the anxious sellers had insisted. “Oddly enough, it’s not all that much fun, especially when I’m one of the suspects in her murder,” I agreed. “They really seemed to want to talk to poor Mitch, too, but I don’t imagine he had much to tell them. I can’t even recall him or Agnes speaking to Mindy last night.” “Well, it all seems silly,” Margo dismissed my fears while idly picking a long, white cat hair from her otherwise immaculate trousers. A fat Persian cat, the source of the offending hair, purred from a wing chair near the fireplace where a Duraflame log burned cozily behind the screen.
