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In fact, she told me once that she was thinking about writing one herself someday. But now, of course, she's dead and the same thing's happened to her. Murder, that is."
    I glanced at Sue. I hadn't mentioned the word murder and neither had she. "What makes you think Agnes Ferman was murdered?" Sue asked.
    Malcolm attempted a long-but-futile suck on his cigar. Fortunately for all concerned, the foul-smelling thing had gone out. "Maybe that's what it said in the paper," he said, glowering at the dead cigar.
    I have a long-running feud with all kinds of members of the media—both print and electronic—but even my old fraternity brother Maxwell Cole wasn't likely to label a death homicide until somebody from the department issued an official statement to that effect.
    "What did it say?" I asked.
    Malcolm shrugged. "That she died under mysterious circumstances. As far as I'm concerned, a fire by itself ain't mysterious at all. But now, with you two showing up and flashing around badges that say homicide all over them, you don't have to be no rocket scientist to be able to put two and two together. Right?"
    "I suppose," I agreed.
    Across the street, the screen door to the Lawrences' house opened violently one more time and Becky Lawrence stamped out to the top step. "Are you coming or should I throw it out?" she demanded.
    "Maybe we should talk to your wife," Sue Danielson suggested. "She might have seen or heard something that night that you missed."
    "You're welcome to," Malcolm said, "although I'm not sure now's the best time. She can be a holy terror, especially when she's in one of her moods like she is today. Besides, I can tell you she didn't see or hear nothing. Old as she is, Becky still sleeps like a baby. She pops one of her pills, takes out her hearing aids, and doesn't hear a thing. That includes sirens. She never woke up that morning until after it was all over. I don't know what would happen if our house ever caught on fire. I'm afraid she'd sleep right through the smoke alarm, even though it's right there in the bedroom with us."
    "Malcolm!"
    "All the same," Sue said, smiling sweetly. "It's probably still a good idea for us to talk to her."
    "When?" Lawrence asked.
    "How about now?"
    He shrugged. "Suit yourselves, then," he said dubiously, "but if I was you, I'd wait until later in the day. Bee's not much of a morning person. I do need to get going, though," he added. "If I don't hop to it when she tells me, she'll make my life hell for the rest of the day." Yanking on the leashes, he pulled the two waiting dogs to their feet. "Come on, guys," he said. "Off we go."
    When we reached the porch of the house across the street, Lawrence stopped with one hand on the screen door. "You'll have to wait out here," he said. "Bee don't hold with having strangers in the house. I'll send her out to talk to you."
    Malcolm Lawrence and the two dogs disappeared inside. "Believe me," Sue said, as the door banged shut behind him. "If I had to be married to that old coot, I wouldn't be much of a morning person either."
    Moments later, Becky Lawrence opened the door. Her housecoat had disappeared as had the curlers, although the curls themselves hadn't exactly been brushed out. "Whaddya want?" she demanded, glaring up at me.
    Sue stepped into the breach. "We're homicide detectives with Seattle PD," she said. "We wanted to know if you could add anything to what your husband told us about Agnes Ferman."
    Faced with a woman investigator, Becky Lawrence's features softened a little. "Don't rightly know," Becky said. "Depends on what he already told you," she said, jerking her head toward the front door.
    "Mr. Lawrence told us about spotting the fire. That made us wonder if you or anyone else might have seen anything out of the ordinary Monday night or Tuesday morning."
    Becky Lawrence paused for a moment, mulling over the question. When she spoke, ill-fitting dentures rattled loosely in her head. "I didn't see nothin' before I went to