It was a dark and stormy afternoon. Rain beat against the deck. Lightning flashed and thunder rattled the windows. Within the dining room, four women sat around an antique dining table, sipping coffee and munching chocolate. They spoke in hushed voices, almost as if they were afraid they would be overheard although they were the only ones in the house. I hesitate to tell you: they were discussing murder.
“The dog brought a piece of clothing from the dead body,” said one.
“Who was murdered?” asked another. “You’ve got to have a murder victim.”
One of the women sat quietly, looking from one guest to another. “It’s like this,” she said, “there was a long ago killing, but it’s not who you would expect it to be. It was tied to a recent crime and there’s somebody in town who does not want the real culprit known. He’ll not stop at anything to keep his secret.”
Lightning sizzled again and a tremendous clap of thunder jarred the dining table. One of the women jumped and yelped while the others giggled nervously.
But, enough was enough, and, after all, the Cozy Critters were here to critique.
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