By Mary Daheim
On the market: luxurious Condos, Corpse integrated only a stone's throw from Judith McMonigle Flynn's thriving Hillside Manor, workmen are busy renovating the elegantly decrepit Alhambra hands into expensive condominiums. yet involved contractor George Guthrie fears that well-heeled capability dealers may perhaps blanch after they find out about the four-decades-dead physique that was once stashed at the back of the crumbling partitions of the moldy manse. And ever-inquisitive Judith's discovery of a few even more contemporary is still at the premises threatens to se estate values during the floorboards--and Guthrie in the course of the roof! either her expert detective husband Joe and her partner-in-crime fixing cousin Renie imagine Judith is bonkers to suspect that the 2 killings are hooked up. however, Judith's able to construct a powerful case to that influence -- except a few homicidal somebody comes to a decision to deconstruct her first!
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A few pieces of furniture remained, though the carpets were rolled up in one corner. Judith wandered into the kitchen, where she couldn’t help but smile. The ﬁxtures were straight out of the middle part of the century, reminding Judith of how the kitchen at Hillside Manor had looked before she’d made her own renovations. A sense of nostalgia overcame her as she peeked into the bedroom. Nostalgia was swiftly replaced by surprise. A woman was lying on the bed. Judith started to apologize, then noticed the ugly red blotch on her chest.
I went in to see if Jeremy was there, but he wasn’t. Instead . . ” Judith hung her head. Reality was setting in, and she didn’t much like what she felt. Sick. Stupid. Still incredulous. ” Woody asked in his soft, melliﬂuous voice. ” Judith gulped. “There wasn’t even time to see if I could ﬁnd a pulse before all those reporters and cameramen rushed in. The next thing I knew, I was on TV, acting inane. ” Woody nodded slowly. “Unfortunately, it wasn’t. I gather you’d never seen Mrs. ” “Heavens, no,” Judith replied.
Keep it rolling,” the redhead cried in a strained voice. ” The question seemed to be aimed at Judith, who was clinging to an old walnut bureau. Cameras clicked and whirled, microphones waved like saplings in the wind. ” Judith screamed, holding up both hands. Though the cameras rolled on, the clamor of voices faded away. Judith tried to regain her composure as the redheaded woman faced her, nose-to-nose. “I just got here,” Judith ﬁnally said. “I haven’t any idea what’s going on, either, except”—she gestured at the motionless ﬁgure on the bed—“that woman on the bed may be dead.
A Streetcar Named Expire by Mary Daheim