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toe. His grizzly-bear frame seemed to blot out the sun. “You said there was a body?”
    “Inside.” I pointed. “In the living room.”
    A pair of paramedics hurried past us, up the steps and across the entryway. They were followed by the stomping black boots of Bull McCoy, who entered Miss Todd’s house with one fist closed on his gun butt. I felt like warning McCoy not to touch anything, but I bit my tongue, deciding that was Chief Ciders’s job.
    I looked up at the tower looming over me, and saw Ciders’s suspicious frown. “You’re pretty far away from your bookstore, Mrs. McClure. What were you doing at Miss Todd’s residence?”
    I told him about the book order and pointed to the box in the backseat. I explained that Miss Todd’s front doors were wide open when I arrived and no one answered the door, even after I rang.
    “That’s when I went inside and found Miss Todd on the floor in the living room.”
    “Did you go upstairs?”
    I shook my head.
    “Did you see anything unusual on Larchmont?”
    “Nothing,” I said immediately.
    “Nothing? Not one thing? Not one person . Think, Mrs. McClure. You’re usually pretty observant,” he said, “if not overly so.”
    Those last few words were muttered with naked condescension. I bristled, and Jack warned: Steady, baby. Just answer the man’s questions.
    “There was one thing,” I told the chief. “Uh, I mean, person. I saw one person on the street.”
    The chief’s bushy gray brows drew together over eyes the color of acid-washed denim. “Who?” he asked.
    “Seymour Tarnish. He sort of ran across the street, right in front of my car. The sun blinded me for a few seconds, and I nearly hit him.”
    “But you didn’t hit him?”
    “No. I stopped just in time.”
    “So you saw Seymour, eh? And he was in some big hurry for no particular reason? Is that what he told you?”
    I frowned. “Seymour didn’t tell me anything. He didn’t stop to talk.”
    “Sounds to me like he was fleeing the scene.”
    “Scene? What are you taking about? I didn’t say he came from this crime scene. He was just in a hurry to cross the street for some reason. He must have been in a hurry, because he didn’t stop.”
    “Uh-huh. Describe his appearance for me, Mrs. McClure. Tell me exactly what you saw. You claim you’re observant. Prove it.”
    “I just caught a glimpse of him, really. He was wearing his blue postal uniform.”
    “Slacks or shorts?”
    “Shorts.”
    “What kind of socks?”
    “White tube.”
    “Anything else you can remember? Think.”
    I shook my head. “Just the stain . . .”
    “What stain?”
    “A red stain on the back of Seymour’s uniform. I was worried for a minute that I’d hit him with my car. But then I realized he wasn’t hurt, because if he was really that badly hurt he wouldn’t have been able to rush off the way he did.”
    Ciders shook his head. “Let me get this straight. You saw a bloodstained man fleeing the scene of a crime, and you don’t think there’s anything to report?” The chief almost laughed in my face. “That’s the best you can do, Mrs. McClure? You , with your bookshop full of fantasy detectives!”
    “But Chief!”
    “What?”
    “Seymour Tarnish would never murder a poor, defense-less, little old lady! Seymour Tarnish wouldn’t hurt a fly!”
    A grunt sounded behind me. Without looking, I instantly knew Bull McCoy had come back outside.
    “You lookin’ at Tarnish for this, Uncle Wade—I mean, Chief ?”
    There was boisterous anticipation in Bull’s tone, if not outright glee. Sure enough, I turned to find the giant in a uniform smiling. Bull never could stand Seymour, and the feeling was mutual.
    “Pick him up, Bull,” Ciders said. “Now.”
    “Chief Ciders, please don’t do that!” I begged. “I’m sure you’re jumping to the wrong—”
    Stop, baby! Jack boomed in my head. Take a breath.
    My fists clenched. “Why?!” I asked the ghost.
    Because you should let the big lummox