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to increase his already hideous resemblance to Stalin, a silver sport-utility vehicle approached from the Norwood Hill end of the street and pulled up in back of the cruiser. The driver rolled down her window, and Felicity recognized a woman named Brooke whom she’d met at condo association meetings. Brooke, like her vehicle, was large, showy, a nd silvery. “What’s going on here?” she called out.
    In the cozy mysteries Felicity devoured, neighbors reliably nurtured the friends and relatives of the victim by brewing pots of tea, a beverage that they oversweetened and dispensed in warm kitchens. Sometimes they even insisted that the traumatized survivors couldn’t possibly stay alone, but must move into guest bedrooms and be treated by sympathetic doctors who made house calls and dispensed sedatives or sleeping pills. Felicity was not, of course, a friend or relative of the little gray man. The only drink she wanted was a second shot of Laphroaig, she wanted to sleep in her own king-size bed between Aunt Thelma’s luxurious sheets, and she had no desire to see a doctor. She was curious about the medications doled out in the English mysteries of the Golden Age of Detective Fiction and would probably have been happy to sample them—what on earth was in a cachet bland and how had aspirin lost the power to induce deep sleep?—but didn’t want contemporary prescription drugs, all of which had modern and thus uninspiring names. Still, she longed to be offered any of the familiar comforts.
    Replying to Brooke, Felicity announced, “Murder! Someone has left a dead man and a cat in my vestibule!”
    “A dead cat?”
    “No, the cat is alive. The man is dead.”
    “Who is he?”
    “I have no idea. I’ve never seen him before. A little man in a gray suit. I’ve taken the cat in and given him some tuna. And water. And I’ve made a little bed for him. He’s very frightened. Someone must have known that I, of all people, would make sure that he was all right.”
    Mr. Trotsky interrupted. “What about the no-pet clause? You’re not allowed—”
    “That means dogs,” Brooke informed him.
    “No pets, ” he replied.
    “Well, I didn’t deliberately go out and get a pet,” Felicity informed Mr. Trotsky. “It was left at my door. He. He was left at my door. And he’s evidence in a murder. He’s a very important cat. He probably holds the key to solving the crime.” A Very Important Cat. Useful in her next book, perhaps? V.I.C.
    “Probably has worms,” Mr. Trotsky said. “Diseases. Did it scratch you?”
    “No. He’s very friendly. And sweet. Besides, he took to me right away.”
    “They always know who hates them,” Brooke said. “Cats do. They have a sixth sense about it.”
    “I don’t hate him,” Felicity said. “On the contrary, I’m crazy about him, and I love cats. I write about—”
    “Cats. Of course. Well, I hope it all turns out for the best,” Brooke said, “but I’ve got to get some dinner and get to bed.” With that, she drove off, leaving Felicity to wonder how a murder could possibly turn out for the best or even for the half decent. Brooke was probably too exhausted to know what she was saying. She and her husband, whom Felicity had never met, seemed to work eighteen-hour days and, understandably, to spend their weekends sleeping. Indeed, many residents of Newton Park left for work early in the morning and returned home late in the evening. Felicity assumed that they were slaving to pay their mortgages. Whatever the reason, the result was what often struck Felicity as an unpopulated or perhaps underpopulated neighborhood. If the murderer had driven up in an eighteen-wheeler and deposited scores of dead men and live cats on her front lawn, the chances were excellent that there would have been no one around to notice. With only a slight feeling of guilt, Felicity realized that in one respect, the murder actually was turning out for the best: For once, the neighborhood was filled with