What a relief. Fresh sea breezes would only remind me of Vera Potter’s corpse. We planned to break into Sadie Street’s rooms at the Plaza that afternoon, but we needed to leave Cedric at the love nest. Cedric turned heads. I’d reluctantly agreed that Ralph could come. After all, Ralph was the only one who knew how to pick locks. Once we arrived at the love nest, I went into the bathroom to change. I yanked on a sturdy girdle—steel-boned, not rubber, thanks very much—a black silk dress, and my favorite black cloche. The hat hid my beaver-lodge hair nicely. I pulled on stockings, buckled on my highest André Perugia T-straps, brushed my teeth, and touched up my lipstick. The gussying-up had nothing to do with Ralph Oliver. Nothing whatsoever. Although, if he happened to glance my way and notice what he was missing—well, that was none of my affair. In the kitchen, Berta told me that she had decided not to participate in our excursion to the Plaza. “I’ll stay here and tidy up the kitchen,”
