You Can't Murder the Dead
Preface
It was the night of the 13th last October. I was sitting in my office educating myself in current world affairs when this dame walks in. She was the typical dame; 5 foot 3 with peroxide blond hare and full, pouting lips. I put down the paper, took my feet off the desk, and stood up to help her take her coat off, but she gestured me to stay, so I did.
"What can I help you with, miss…"
She took my cue and answered, "de Vall. My name is Shelly de Vall and I need you to solve a murder case for me."
True, I was a private eye, but murder? I'd never done a murder investigation before, so I told her straight, "Sure… I can do that." That's when she rushed at me like as if she'd collapse if I didn't hold her.
"Thank you," she said, "Thank you very, very much."
"Hold up," I said, pushing her slightly away, "We gotta do this straight, like."
"Of course," she stepped back and pulled out a handkerchief from her purse to wipe a tear away. I gestured toward a chair and she sat. I set myself on the opposite side of the desk and pulled out a notepad and pencil.
"Now," I said, "Let's start at the beginning and go from there." I straightened my tie. "Who was murdered?"