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his uniformed officers again.
    “Yuki, O’Dwyer!” he shouted. “She dead?”
    “Yes, sir,” the two officers answered simultaneously. Simultaneously and expressionlessly.
    “Get the crime-scene technicians,” Wenger told them.
    “Yes, sir,” they answered again, and O’Dwyer stepped away from his post at Silk’s body, leaving Yuki on detail as he used a cell phone.
    “Can I interrogate them?” Kettering whispered to Wenger, loud enough for any one of us to hear him. Maybe he was deaf as well as enthusiastic.
    “Fine,” Wenger answered, and Kettering turned our way, all but wagging his tail.
    “See those books he’s carrying?” Barbara whispered in my ear, her whisper far lower than Kettering’s. “Thin books, short words?”
    “Big type?” I whispered back, trying to keep my lips from moving.
    Kettering didn’t seem to notice. Though Wenger glared our way. He definitely wasn’t deaf.
    Justine stood up then. A brave woman.
    “This is my house, Chief, Lieutenant,” she told the two policemen. “I’m Justine Howe. I called in this, this…incident.”
    “Glad to meet you,” Lieutenant Kettering assured her, stepping forward and shaking her hand heartily. “I just want to tell you how interested I am in the field of psychic phenomena. I’m sure we can each learn from one another—”
    “Ma’am,” Chief Wenger cut in, his rough voice softer with Justine than it had been with his lieutenant. “Is there another room where we can get comfortable?”
    Justine nodded and led us all into her kitchen with a minimum of fuss, dragging Isabelle’s and Elsa’s chairs in with her. The choice of the kitchen as a “comfortable” place must have involved an element of positive thinking. The kitchen had the same knotty-wood paneling and grass cloth motif as the living room, along with white-tiled counters, and an old electric stove and refrigerator, but it wasn’t anywhere near as big as the living room.
    “Isabelle, Elsa,” Justine said quietly, gesturing toward the chairs she’d brought with her.
    Our two elders sat down obediently. And quickly. There weren’t enough chairs for everyone to be seated. There was barely enough room for everyone to squeeze into the kitchen at all. Wenger grabbed one of the four kitchen chairs. Kettering grabbed another and laid his stack of books down on the table. Linda Underwood propped Artemisia in the third chair. Artemisia definitely needed it. She had chewed off all of her lipstick and her eyes were glazed under her smeared mascara.
    “It’s okay, sweetie pie,” Linda cooed in Artemisia’s ear. Did she really believe it was okay?
    It did feel better in here, away from Silk’s body, with the smells of fried onions past, and sugar and spices flavoring the warm air. I sniffed, trying to guess what meal had been cooked last in here, while Gil Nesbit took a quick look around and plopped into the last seat as if he were playing musical chairs. That left the rest of us to stand around or find creative ways to sit.
    Barbara and I ended up scrunched into the small amount of space on the floor by the kitchen cabinets. Tory perched on a tiled counter. Justine, Zarathustra, Linda, Denise, and Rich all stood. So much for getting comfortable. The kitchen floor was uncarpeted, cold, and hard.
    “Well, sonny, getting all excited about this murder, are you?” Elsa asked, turning toward Lieutenant Kettering, her thin voice rasping in a friendly way. At least, I thought it was friendly. It was hard to tell with Elsa. She turned back. Was that a wink behind her bifocals?
    “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. Then his face grew serious. “Of course, I realize a tragedy has occurred, a significant one—”
    “Who was killed?” Chief Wenger asked.
    “Silk Sokoloff,” Justine answered. Her dark eyes teared up for the first time. Was it just hitting her now? “She was a friend, and a colleague. She was a wonderful character.”
    “A kick,” Linda added. “More like a dog than