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brought me back to the murder, well, at least the reward part.  Well, that train of thought and the need to keep my mind off whatever was happening in my closet.  Teagan would combine things I never would have thought to put together, look great in them, and I’d never see them again.
That’s what got me thinking.
To look at me, you would expect to spend the evening in front of the TV with a couple of beers, watching a football game.  Your brain would flip if you saw the truth of it, with satin and lace and smelly good stuff; I’ve never even tasted beer, the smell of it is enough for me.  Yuck.
My sister invokes thoughts of rose chintz luncheon plates and a silk covered chaise with crystal vases full of fresh flowers and something delightful in the fridge.  You’re more likely to get the football game, a beer, and if you’re company, she might pour the chips into a bowl for your first visit, but not if you’ve been there before.
What if the whole murder thing is the same?
I went to the computer with new enthusiasm. 
My mom always says that every experience in your life brings you to where you need to be for the next experience.  There are no accidents.  There are no missteps.  I’ve always hated that theory.  But maybe Mom’s right.  She usually is.  Don’t quote me on that.  I’ll deny it.
 
The name of the murdered woman is Lily Ivy-Rosenbloom.  You can’t make this stuff up, and if you did, let’s hope you were more creative. 
When I typed her name into the search engine, I got lots of information on flowers and florists and all things horticulture, but nothing on the murder.
When I typed in her name plus the word murder, I got the basics.  She was shot.  Single wound to the front of the head.  No gunpowder tattooing, which meant the gun was some distance away from her.  She had residue on her hand, but not in the right pattern. 
Wonder what the heck that means.
She’d left a suicide note, but it looked forged.  It had been typed.  Signed only with her first initial.  Weird.  They found a piece of paper with her initial written over and over.  It was at the bottom of the garbage in another room.
Wonder if that means the murderer was practicing, or maybe ol’ Lily was just a little bit quirky, or maybe it was something as simple as Catholic school, you never know why people do the things they do, giving them bizarre motivations can put you right off the path.
When I’m on the phone, I write the same thing over and over again.  My third grade teacher, Sr. Dominic Mary, said it was the best way to have beautiful penmanship.  She had the most beautiful handwriting I’d ever seen.  She was really cool too.  When she played basketball with the boys, she would pull her habit up and shove it in her belt, and we could see her underskirt and her big rosary beads would clink and clank and she almost always made the basket. 
I wanted to be just like her when I grew up, except for the habit, and the no makeup thing, and I wanted to be able to kiss a boy, and I didn’t want to follow orders or pray that much or be stuck teaching kids, but other than that, we were just the same.
I kept reading the article about the Rosenbloom murder, but in the back of my mind, a wee little voice was asking why a murderer would be so careless.  If you’re going to practice a signature, why leave evidence where it will easily be found?  Is that stupidity or brilliance?  Was it a smoking gun, or a defense?  Who would be stupid enough to leave blatant evidence for the police to find?  Certainly a man smart enough to be a bazillionaire, and her husband is ugly rich, earned not given, wouldn’t do something like that by accident, wonder if he did it by design.
The article said her assistant found her at 2:30 in the morning.  Her husband was nowhere to be found, he wandered in late that following afternoon with no alibi.  He claimed that he was at their weekend place, but had nothing to prove it.  No