I opened the next door in the hall, the women’s room, even though Sally had also been in there. Since there were only two stalls, she’d have been pretty sure to know of Mamie’s presence. But I bent over to look under the doors. No feet. I opened both doors. Nothing.

I didn’t quite have the guts to check the adjoining men’s room, but since Arthur Smith entered it while I hesitated, I figured I’d hear about it soon if Mamie was in there.

I moved on, and out of all the glaring beigeness I caught a little glimpse of something different, so I looked down at the base of the door and saw a smear. It was red-brown.

The separate sources of my uneasiness suddenly coalesced into horror. I was holding my breath when my hand reached out to open that door to the last room, the little kitchen used for fixing the refreshments…

… and saw an empty turquoise shoe upright on its ridiculous high heel, right inside the door.

And then I saw the blood spattered everywhere on the shining beige enamel of the stove and refrigerator.

And the raincoat.

Finally I made myself look at Mamie. She was so dead. Her head was the wrong shape entirely. Her dyed black hair was matted with clots of her blood. I thought, the human body is supposed to be ninety percent water, not ninety percent blood. Then my ears were buzzing and I felt very weak, and though I knew I was alone in the hall, I felt the presence of something horrible in that kitchen, something to dread. And it was not poor Mamie Wright.

I heard a door swoosh shut in the hall. I heard Arthur Smith’s voice say, “Miss Teagarden? Anything wrong?”

“It’s Mamie,” I whispered, though I’d intended a normal voice. “It’s Mrs. Wright.” I ruined the effect of all this formality by simply folding onto the floor. My knees seemed to have turned to faulty hinges.