I’d caught only a few winks of sleep after the commotion in the hall, and my head was as heavy as wet sand. After a long stretch, I headed for the bathroom. Maybe a steamy shower and some mint toothpaste would revive me. Somewhat awakened, I dressed and grabbed my favorite cloche from its hatbox on a shelf in the closet. Although Ambrose didn’t much care for this one and once compared it to an oversized French beret, now would be the perfect time to wear it, with him being gone and all. I schlepped to the staircase, where sunlight poured through a beveled window and hopscotched over the stairs. I continued to walk down the stairs and through the hallway by the restaurant. Nothing much registered until I passed the bathroom where Lance had reaf-fixed the crime-scene tape, and then I shuddered. No use starting the morning off on a sour note, though, so I veered to the bar, where fat leather armchairs clumped around tables made from old wagon wheels. The smell of cut limes, spilled gin, and Ivory dish soap rose above it all.
What do You think about Murder At Morningside (2016)?
