Detective Bishop had just finished examining the lifeless body of Sarah Brownlee, sprawled across the plush couch in her elegantly furnished living room.
“Mrs. Brownlee was poisoned, likely by the leftover Thanksgiving turkey,” Bishop said, gesturing to a half-eaten plate of food and a broken turkey bone on the coffee table. Sheriff Farr, diligently dusting the plate for fingerprints, glanced over.
“I called her husband at his office and told him to come home,” Farr said, straightening up. “Didn’t tell him why—I hate breaking news like this. Would you mind doing it?”
Bishop nodded. “I’ll handle it,” he said, watching as the body was carefully carried out. Once the ambulance disappeared down the street, he settled into a lounge chair to wait for Mr. Brownlee.
Moments later, Mr. Brownlee rushed into the room, his face pale. “Where’s Sarah? What’s happened?” he asked, his voice trembling.
“I’m sorry to inform you, Mr. Brownlee,” said Bishop solemnly, “but your wife passed away about three hours ago. Your cleaning lady discovered her and immediately called the sheriff.”
“I can’t find any fingerprints on this plate,” Farr muttered, holding it up to the light. “I’ll send it to the lab for a closer look.”
Mr. Brownlee’s face flushed with sudden anger. “Please find the monster who did this to Sarah!” he shouted. “I’ll offer a twenty-five thousand dollar reward to anyone who brings them to justice!”
Sheriff Farr crossed his arms, giving Mr. Brownlee a measured look. “Save your money,” he said flatly. “The murderer won’t be hard to find.”
Why did Sheriff Farr say that?
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