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delayed until the fuss died down. That was three years ago and I’m still in my little cubicle where I won’t scare the clients.
    “Do you think the police will find out about Little Richard and think I have violent tendencies?” I asked.
    Heather looked saddened by my question. “He’s not so little. He’s really well built. Just kind of compact.”
    That was the kind of comment that kept me from truly bonding with Heather.
    Julie looked me in the eye. “Yes, I think the police are going to find out about Richard. Wee, tiny little Richard. And they are going to find out about Sylvia.”
    Sylvia. That was nothing. Hardly worth mentioning. I don’t know why Julie even brought it up. Sylvia is my ex-husband Jack’s new wife, the woman he married the day after our divorce was finalized.
    What happened with Sylvia is that the first time I met her I gave her a tiny little slap across the face. It was Evan’s high school graduation and Jack and I had decided to be civilized and have a nice family dinner after the ceremony. Jack, who as he told me a number of times, had never known true happiness until he met Sylvia, ordered champagne, and I guess it went to my head. According to Evan, I stood up and completely unprovoked proceeded to lean over the table and wallop Sylvia across the face. My feeling is that I must have been extremely provoked and he hadn’t been paying attention. I can’t imagine I would slap her for no reason. So Sylvia filed an assault charge against me and then changed her mind after a couple of days. Jack said that she found me so pathetic and pitiful she couldn’t find it in her heart to take me to court. A good, kind woman is Sylvia.
    “Sylvia retracted that charge. How would the police find out?”
    Julie sighed. “The original charge will stay on the books. They’ll find it.”
    Was that true? The assault charge stays on the books? That’s the thing about Julie. She says things with such authority that everyone assumes she knows exactly what she’s talking about.
    “Well anyway, two minor incidents is hardly a history,” I said.
    “It’s a pattern Val,” said Heather, taking a sip of her herbal tea. “The police will see it as a pattern. You know, where there’s smoke there’s fire.”
    “And they’ll probably find other stuff if they start digging,” added Julie helpfully.
    This was looking bad. I had to take charge. I couldn’t just sit there on Heather’s uncomfortable sofa and wait for the police to dredge up information that would assure them they would not have to look further than my living room to find Mr. Potter’s killer. “I’m going back home. I have to find out what’s going on in there.”
    “I’ll come with you,” Julie said.
    “Me too,” chimed in Heather.
    “No, you’d better stay here,” I told her. “I don’t want the police getting ticked off about people contaminating their crime scene.
    Heather hesitated, and then gave a nod of agreement. “Just remember I’m here for you Val.”
    I gave her a quick hug and headed into the hall, Julie shutting Heather’s door firmly behind us.
    The door to my condo opened and a man emerged, pulling a stretcher. On the stretcher was a black body bag. A body bag with Mr. Potter’s body in it. Julie and I pressed ourselves against the wall as the stretcher went by while the man looked around the hallway in consternation.
    “There’s no elevator,” I told him.
    “No elevator? For frig’s sake. Not even a service elevator?”
    “Nope.”
    “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, as he headed back into my condo, leaving the stretcher in the hallway in front of Julie and me.
    “Nice. Very professional,” said Julie. “Is he with the police? I should get his badge number.”
    “Please don’t,” I told her. I was trying not to look at the body bag. This was surreal. How could Mr. Potter be lying in front of me zipped up in a black plastic bag?
    The man came back, this time with a police officer in tow.