The vestibule flooded with silken light and illumined dust but I saw her hesitate on the porch. The sheer curtain that blurred the outside world revealed red pants and a yellow shirt, a delicate arrangement of features. She was looking at my name plate, wondering if she wanted to ring the bell. Then she excited the chimes with one button press.
I– the Lucille (Luce for short) Carmichael, Handwriting Analyst noted at my door–answered, the sweetness of cherry blossoms entering with the young woman. She was perhaps twenty, not so small but bent by a burden, whatever that turned out to be.
“Helen Meyer. Two o-clock appointment–am I late?”
“Not at all,” I said, ushering her into the solarium. “It’s warm in here, I have cracked one of the windows. Don’t mind Sibelius.”
My copper-colored tabby, a lover of classical music, took that moment to wind himself around Helen’s legs, then…
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