Shirley Jackson holds the victim’s dog in her arms when she answers the door on my second knock.
She looks like she’s been crying, her eyes red and swollen. The dog, a fluffy, tan Pomeranian, barks and growls at me, as I stand in the hall, asking questions I know the woman won’t be able to answer.
“At what point did you know something was wrong?”
“When I heard raised voices coming from behind Cora’s apartment door,” she says.
“Can you remember what time it was?”
She shifts the dog in her arms as if it is a baby, shushing it and kissing its head. “An hour ago.”
“How did you hear the voices two doors down from the victim’s apartment? Were you out in the hall?”
“I couldn’t sleep so I opened the door to see if the morning paper had arrived.”
“Do you know if it was a male or female voic
