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    “Don’t touch,” Igor said irritably.
    “I didn’t touch,” April said.
    “Well, you’re hanging around, bothering me. Don’t you know you’re supposed to get lost?”
    “I don’t get lost,” April said. “Maybe you won’t think of the questions I want to ask. What about the sand?”
    “It’s my job to think of every question. I’ve already thought about the sand. I’m doing it last with a different bag.” Igor crawled into a corner and vacuumed the same stretch of woodwork for the second time, which meant he was desperate. It was almost unheard of to get anything of great value from vacuuming.
    “Not much here,” he muttered. “Not even a stray spiderweb.”
    “That’s what’s wrong with this picture. It’s all too clean,” April said.
    No blood splattered in revealing patterns. No open window in the basement with muddy footprints leading up the stairs. No shards of glass to speak of violent confrontation. No tool marks on the door. There was probably nothing in the sand either. The sand was in the display window. Anybody going out there would be seen from the street.
    Igor had bagged the contents of the wastebasket. Justbits and pieces of paper. It was odd there were no leftovers from lunch in it, nothing to indicate two girls had been working and snacking there all day on Saturday. There wasn’t even an empty coffee cup anywhere. Didn’t she eat anything, April wondered. Did she go out for lunch, and what about the other girl? What was the murder weapon? There were some bruises on the dead girl’s arm, but April didn’t see a gunshot wound on the body, a bump on the head, or anything else. Of course there could be something she didn’t see under the dress. There was some bruising on her neck. It did seem fairly clear the rope that hung the girl up there was not what killed her. The noose was not in the same place as the marks on her neck.
    “Stop that,” Igor said crossly from across the room as April moved toward the counter.
    “You did this already,” she murmured, peering into the open money drawer.
    There was a fair amount of money in it. Apparently robbery had not been the motive. Sometime during the day one or more customers had bought something with a hundred-dollar bill. There were several of them stacked in the drawer, along with a thin pile of tens and twenties and a number of credit card receipts. At least there were names on those. April would have to find everyone who came in throughout the day on Saturday, and for weeks before that. The receipts for items bought were dated Saturday, two days before. Mrs. Manganaro had told April the store was closed on Sunday. The girl must have died on Saturday. It looked like the time of death should be later than that. The body was in very good condition for the middle of summer. But it was very cold in the storeroom. Maybe she’d been refrigerated.
    April checked the girl’s handbag. Her wallet was in it, some pieces of paper, an address book, a five-dollar bill zipped into a small pocket. A pink lipstick, not the plum that was on her face, no other makeup. A medium-size Swiss Army knife. An inhaler. Ventolin—prescription medicine for asthma. Maybe Maggie died of an asthma attack. Sure.
    Igor bagged the purse. He had laid out all his kits forfluid samples but hadn’t had any use for them. There was no blood or other fluids to collect. The dead girl had her underwear on. It seemed unlikely that she’d been raped. Rapists didn’t usually dress their victims up afterward.
    “Igor, was she dressed like that before or after she was killed?” April asked.
    “No spots on the floor. You tell me.”
    No spots on the floor under the body indicated someone had taken the time to clean up. In death, the bladder and lower bowel evacuated. There was a toilet in the storeroom. The murderer could have cleaned up with the paper towels in there, and gotten rid of them down the toilet. Murderers didn’t often do that. What kind of