Half an hour later, I had placed the new pie on a cookie sheet and was just sliding it into the oven when the doorbell rang. Oh good, Marla. But it wasn’t my friend. Reilly and Blackridge stood on our porch wearing wraparound sunglasses and dark suits. They looked like the Blues Brothers. Was their attire a joke? Knowing them, it wasn’t.
My discomfort showed in my stiff voice as I invited the detectives into the living room. But they were acting very polite, even deferential. I wondered how they felt about the progress of the investigation. I was curious to know how the questioning of Courtney MacEwan had gone. And I was very curious to know if they’d found anything in Cecelia Brisbane’s files, or if they’d come up with a theory as to who had strangled her, and why. But I refrained. I dou
