“Take a breath,” advised a cool, familiar, voice.

It was good advice, and I stopped to take it.

“Marta Schuster and her storm trooper are up there,” Becca Whitley went on, stepping from her apartment doorway at the back of the hall to stand by the foot of the stairs.

Becca Whitley was a wet dream about three years past its prime. She had very long blond hair, very bright blue eyes, strong (if miniature) features, and cone-shaped breasts thrusting out from an athletic body. Becca, who’d lived in Shakespeare for about five months, had inherited the apartment building from her uncle, Pardon Albee, and she lived in his old apartment.

I’d never thought Becca would last even this long in little Shakespeare; she’d told me she’d moved here from Dallas, and she seemed like a city kind of woman. I’d been sure she’d put the building up for sale and take off for some urban center. She’d surprised me by staying.

And she’d taken my place as the highest-ranking student in Marshall’s class.

But there were moments I felt a connection to Becca, and this was one of them. We’d begun a tentative sort of friendship.

“How long have they been up there?” I asked.

“Hours.” Becca looked up the stairs as if, through the floors and doors, she could watch what the sheriff was so busy doing. “Did they tell you to come?”

“Yes.”

“What about Marlon?”

“He was at the crime scene bawling his eyes out.”

“Ew.” Becca scrunched her nose in distaste. “He’s the one been seeing her so hot and heavy.”

I nodded. I wondered how well the sheriff would investigate her own brother.

“Do you have your key?” Becca asked.

“I gave it to them.”

“Good move,” she said. “They got my copy of her key, too.”

I shifted from foot to foot. “I better go up. I’m supposed to tell them if anything’s missing.”

“See you tonight,” she called after me, and I lifted my hand in acknowledgment.