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away from there with an even more symbolic object.
    The objects that the defendant took with her were two pennies. It could be claimed that everyone has at least one pair of pennies with him at any given time, but these were not ordinary coins. They were war-issue pennies, no longer in wide circulation. And although we cannot presume to know what significance they held for Lisbeth Benedict, we do know what she did with them. After Cordelia McKittridge had bled to death there on the floor of the dovecote, the defendant laid her body out as if for burial and placed one of those pennies on either eye. And the symbolic object she took away with her? A ring. An amethyst ring that the evidence will show had been given to Miss McKittridge by the defendant’s husband. A ring that was later found among the defendant’s things by her daughter, Judy, after the family had moved from the estate to their own home, where outsiders would have no access to their possessions. A ring, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that was not merely removed from Cordelia McKittridge’s hand, but hacked from it—along with the finger on which she wore it.
    I pushed the transcript away. Right there was the reason I didn’t want to reinvestigate this case. Perhaps what had been done to Cordy McKittridge was mild in comparison to what went on today, but it still repulsed me. And just as I refused to watch splatter movies or read lovingly crafted fiction or true-crime accounts dwelling on mutilation and sadism, I didn’t have to deal with this.
    I was beginning to very much regret having included Lis Benedict in my dinner invitation. How could I sit at the same table with her when I still harbored doubts that she was innocent of this atrocity?
    The heat had edged up under the mushroom mixture again. It bubbled, and a grayish white blob flew through the air and onto the counter. I glared at it, consulted the recipe. What was I supposed to do next with this horrible concoction? Wrap it in corn tortillas. Pour the sauce over them. Top with Monterey Jack cheese and bake.
    Oh, no. I wouldn’t! I wasn’t wasting perfectly good tortillas and cheese on this. I hefted the pan containing the mushroom mixture, carried it to the sink, and dumped it into the Disposal. Then I went back for the tomato sauce.
    Just as I tipped the skillet over the sink, Rae came in from the backyard, face rosy from a day in the sun, fresh crop of freckles blossoming on the bridge of her nose. In her hand she carried a pair of gardening shears.
    My eyes rested on them, and I recoiled. Looked at the thick red mixture washing down the drain. And thought. The finger. Good God, what happened to Cordy’s finger?
    Rae stared at me. “Shar, are you okay? What’s going on here?”
    â€œThis stuff is inedible, that’s what! I thought you said Larry made these for you and they were good.”
    â€œWell, that’s how I remember them. But I’d fortified myself with wine. You always have to do that when Larry cooks.”
    â€œNow you tell me! Listen, I need you to go to the store right away.”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œFor something to eat!”
    She laughed and set the shears on the counter. “All right. I suppose this is my fault . . . sort of. What do you need?”
    â€œSourdough—a couple of loaves. Shredded Parmesan—lots. Spaghetti. And you’d better get something for us to snack on; It’s going to take a while for my spaghetti sauce to defrost.”
    Rae grabbed her car keys from the table and went down the hall. I tidied the kitchen, put the spaghetti sauce into the microwave, and took a glass of wine and the trial transcript outside to the deck.
    The early evening was unusually warm and clear. Mellow rays of sun showed a transformed backyard. Rae and I had tamed the wild vegetation and weeded overrun flower beds; all that remained was planting. Tomorrow, I thought as I sat on one of the lounges. I