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wasn’t going to help me out, I needed to do something myself.
    The living room was a hideous hodgepodge of styles. Here and there, I recognized Brad’s work (the yellow-and-black sofa, for instance, and the huge gilt mirror over the fireplace, and maybe the blue-and-white Chinese vase in the corner full of dried pampas grass), but nothing really went together. The fireplace mantel was covered with little ceramic figures of peasant children. Two walls were olive green and one wall was turquoise; the remaining wall contained a mural of an indistinguishable nature scene. Was it a meadow? A forest? Were those nymphs frolicking in the woods? Or were those sheep making their way up a mountain trail?
    I made my way over to look at the details and found myself standing in front of a rolltop desk. As I peered at the desk more closely, I saw that it had cubby holes organized and even labeled. One read B ILLS P AID , another read B ILLS T O P AY , another read P ENDING .
    I was curious about that last one, especially since it contained the most items. So I pulled out the handful of papers inside. Most appeared to be invoices from various contractors who had worked on her house, including a plumber, a carpenter, and a faux finisher. But seven of them were from Brad. They went back for months and included bills for furniture purchases, upholstery work, and the painting of the kitchen. She’d written across the bottom of all seven bills, “Not a penny until it’s done right!”
    I knew Brad had done a lot of work for Mrs. Fairchild. I didn’t realize that she had not paid him for any of it. I couldn’t help thinking about his fanciful note: “Off to slay the dragon.” And then I thought: what if the cops saw these bills? Would they think it was a motive for murder? Would they think that Brad killed her?
    I was just about to stuff them into my pocket, when the police came back into the dining room.
    â€œWhat have you got there?” asked Sanders.
    â€œYeah,” said Larson, looking past me at the open rolltop. “Going through the dead woman’s desk, huh?”
    Pepe barked at the cops and went charging toward them. I ran to intercept him and dropped the bills I was holding. Like toast always landing on the buttered side, a couple of Brad’s bills landed face up.
    â€œYou’re disturbing the crime scene,” the female cop told me as Sanders came over and picked the bills up off the floor, then took the rest out of my hand.
    â€œYou could be arrested for that, you know,” said the young male cop.
    â€œSomething important here?” asked Sanders, looking through the bills in his hand.
    â€œNo,” I told him. At least they wouldn’t know they came out of the P ENDING file. On the other hand, the dates and the note on the bottom were pretty clear.
    â€œSure.” He gave me a suspicious look, then told the uniformed cops, “Why don’t you two put up the tape? Front door and back door. We don’t want anybody else traipsing in before forensics gets here.”
    As they went out, Sanders told me, “Have a seat, Miss Sullivan. We need to take your statement.”
    Both the detectives sat across from me at the dining table. Sanders put the bills on the table as he took his seat and, of course, a few of Brad’s bills were face up for all to see.
    â€œDo you know the victim?” Sanders asked me.
    â€œNot really,” I said.
    â€œWhat does that mean?” That was Sanders.
    â€œI came here once with my partner, Brad, to deliver some furniture.”
    â€œPartner?” Larson gave that a bit of a leer.
    â€œMy business partner. Brad owns an antique shop. He does interior design and furniture restoration.”
    Sanders looked around the dining room which was, if possible, in even worse taste than the living room. It was ringed with china cabinets full of silver and gold tableware. The wallpaper was silver flocked. The