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Sample text
Of course. It made perfect sense. What else could it be? But even while I assured myself that this was the only plausible explanation, I felt uneasy. Because if it wasn’t a screw-up and the roses weren’t from anyone I knew ...? Nah. Too far-fetched. Unlocking the door to my flat, I carried the box inside and dropped the roses in the trash bin. I don’t care that much about flowers, really. And these were a little too elegiac. Or maybe I was getting superstitious in my old age. First Robert’s murder, and now this gruesome coincidence of Rusty -- Richard Corday -- dying in Buffalo.
Homosexuality just wasn’t what it used to be in the Golden Age of mystery writing. Why had he come back to the Blue Parrot that night? Would it have changed anything if I had still been waiting? Why had he come back? Had his date bailed? Had they argued? Or had Robert changed his mind before he ever got there? Why hadn’t he come back to the shop if he wanted to talk to me? I realized that I would never know what Robert had wanted to tell me. Depressed, I went into the bedroom, lost the Hugo Boss blazer and the kicks, changed into black sweats.
Always in the background, like in the yearbook photo. Thinking back, I was horrified at how careless -and callous -- we’d been. And yet Tara said she’d never known, never suspected until they were married. Until, in fact, they were separating. There’s a reason whenever homicide occurs that spouses and ex-spouses are the handsdown favorite suspects of law enforcement. But there was no way Tara could overpower Rob, stab him to death and lift his body into a dumpster. Besides, she had been in Iowa.