Read Pennies on a Dead Woman's Eyes for Free Online

the transcript closer, stirring as I read.
    The means: The evidence will show that Lisbeth Benedict had studied calligraphy, was in fact an excellent calligrapher, and was in the habit of signing her husband’s name to checks when it was not possible to obtain his signature. That she was fully capable of creating a note that Cordelia McKittridge would believe came from her lover, requesting that she meet him at the dovecote on the evening of June twenty-second. That Mrs. Benedict came down with a convenient and unconfirmed case of food poisoning on the afternoon of June twenty-second and was allegedly forced to cancel out of the dinner for the secretary of state. That the household staff had been given the evening off, and that Mrs. Benedict and her ten-year-old daughter, Judy, were the only persons at the estate from six o’clock until midnight. The only persons save for one other: Cordelia McKittridge.
    I tasted the mushroom mixture again. The salt had done absolutely nothing for the dreadful concoction. Tossing the looming spector of high blood pressure to the winds, I grabbed the shaker and dumped in a whole handful. On the back burner sat a second skillet containing a tomato-based sauce to be poured over the filled enchiladas. I hesitated before tasting it. The oily sheen on its surface—what could have caused it? Health food wasn’t supposed to be greasy. I dipped the spoon into the skillet and sampled a small amount. Oh, that was nasty stuff! Shuddering, I went back to the transcript.
    The People, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, cannot presume to know exactly what went on in that isolated dovecote between Lisbeth Benedict and Cordelia McKittridge. We can assume that angry words were spoken on both sides; we can assume that emotions ran high. The evidence will show that Cordelia McKittridge was attacked with a pair of gardening shears, that she was badly mutilated, that she died of exsanguinations—that is to say, she bled to death on the floor of the dovecote. Testimony from Mrs. Benedict’s own daughter will show that the defendant returned to the mansion shortly after ten that evening with red stains on her dress, stains that she later—much later, after she was arrested for the crime—attempted to explain as ink stains. But, ladies and gentlemen, it would have taken a great deal of ink to make those stains; Cordelia McKittridge lost practically all her blood.
    I looked up from the page, glanced at the skillet containing the red sauce, then tried to wipe the obvious from my mind with a flurry of activity. I dumped in some garlic powder, followed by more cumin and chili powder. Stirred furiously and tasted.
    â€œOh, my God!”
    Whatever restraints I’d imposed upon myself in the interests of sound nutrition fell by the wayside. I snatched up a bottle of red cooking wine and poured with abandon. As the vile concoction simmered, I read on.
    A crime of passion, you say? Violent and reprehensible, but understandable as a product of momentary insanity? No, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, it was not.
    The evidence we are about to present will show that the murder weapon—those sharp and deadly shears—was not seized either in an unanticipated fit of rage or self-defense. The shears were kept, not in the dovecote, but in the gardener’s shed, had in fact been in the shed when the gardener locked it before going home at five that afternoon. And a duplicate key to that shed was kept on a Peg-Board in the pantry of the mansion, easily accessible to any of the residents. Lisbeth Benedict went to the dovecote with those shears in hand, prepared to do murder.
    You may recall that we have stated that Lisbeth Benedict took advantage of her opportunities in a creative manner. Creativity was one of the hallmarks of this crime. Lisbeth Benedict took with her to the dovecote not only the shears with which she killed Cordelia McKittridge but also two symbolic objects. And she came