A breeze moved gently through open doors leading to the balcony, and the view of the skyline at night was spectacular. My sharp eyesight picked out the dark shapes of trees in a park a mile away and it reminded me how long it had been since I’d been out in the woods. I definitely needed to call Uncle Ben before my inner beast got impatient with city living.
“Were these doors open all yesterday evening?” I asked, turning to a middle-aged woman nursing a snifter of brandy.
Standing there, weaving like a flag in a breeze, the victim—Mrs. Rutlidge—took a sip before she spoke. “I suppose so. I often leave them ajar in the summer.” She followed my gaze to the doors and then stared back at me.
“Mr. Cotter, you can’t seriously think anyone came in thatway, do you?” she blurted out at full volume, making my ears ring.