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that Mary could identify the dead woman, but I asked anyway. “You wouldn’t happen to know her name by any chance, would you?”
    “Of course I would, I mean I do,” said the flustered and bedraggled Mary, “it’s Dona Deville.”
    It was my turn to go into shock. Grabbing a banister for support, I lowered my head, closed my eyes, and took a couple of deep breaths. I forced myself to pull myself together, at least for the time being. Only later, and in the privacy of Kettle Cottage, would I allow myself the luxury of falling apart.
    “Maybe you should go back in there,” suggested Mary, rolling her deep blue eyes in the direction of the foyer, “and check on her. Maybe she’s not actually dead.”
    Although I’d had only a fleeting glimpse of the corpse, the ghastly image of the face with its gaping mouth, bulging eyes, and horribly bruised neck had burned itself into my brain.
    “Let me put it to you this way, Mar. When was the last time someone greeted you at the door sprawled on the floor and looking like the Pale Rider on a very bad day? Trust me, the woman in there is definitely dead.”
    Gathering up what was left of my courage, and without so much as a backward glance at the body in the foyer, I closed the door of the cottage. Unlike Lot’s wife, I wasn’t tempted to take another look.
    “Really, Gin,” said Mary, following close behind me as I collected Pesty’s bowl and made my way down the porch stairs, “was it necessary to use dog water to revive me? It seems to me that it would have been quicker and certainly a lot more sanitary to use water from the cottage.”
    “Jeez, Mary, I practically save your life, and what do I get for my effort? Unfounded criticism,” I said, shaking my head. “Even an amateur sleuth like me knows better than to disturb a crime scene. As it is, our fingerprints are probably all over the front door, the entrance hall, the porch, and that jiggly porch swing.” I should have come clean with Mary, confessing that what I’d said about not distrubing the crime scene and the presence of our fingerprints was purely an afterthought on my part. But I didn’t. As afterthoughts go, I felt it was one of my best.
    Returning to the van, a contrite Mary broke out her emergency supply of sugar cookies. While the two amigos (Mary and Pesty) munched their way to carb heaven, I used my cell phone and called the police. After promising the dispatcher that we would stay put until help arrived, I silently apologized to my ancestors for having doubted the power of Irish intuition and lit a badly needed cigarette.
    Only when the normally passive Pesty began to growl softly did it occur to me that whoever was responsible for Dona Deville’s demise might be lurking about. It was a frightening thought and one that I chose not to share with Mary. I figured that she’d had more than enough excitement for one day. Besides, Pesty’s supply of water was running low.
    What seemed like hours was in reality only a matter of minutes. With sirens screaming, two police cars (one marked and one unmarked) turned into the driveway, raising clouds of gray dust before coming to an abrupt halt behind the van.
    I’d already imagined how things would probably unfold once my no-nonsense, police lieutenant son-in-law, Matt, and his trusty sidekick, Sergeant Sid Rosen, answered my call for help. Most likely, after checking that Mary and I were okay, the tall, dark, and handsome Matt would then instruct the mustaschioed, bald, and stoic Sid to take our statements before sending us merrily, or maybe not so merrily, on our way. With a bit of luck, Pesty might still be the happy recipient of a Farmer John’s doggy bag. As far as I was concerned, the death of Dona Deville was a police matter and I had no intention of getting involved. Of course, everything changed when Police Chief Rollie Stevens, minus Matt and Sid, arrived on the scene.
    With his red lips, raisin-like eyes, brown skin, woolly white hair, and