The dead man moved out of her way, making the sound of a squeaky shoe as he slid on the tiled floor. The sound of Abigail releasing her breath was that of a heifer calling to her mother: when Mrs. Wortheling vented air, it came out so fast, and with such volume, it was a wonder that she did not make near-by people's ears pop.

As Abigail stepped over the corpse, the door closed behind her and set the bell jingling merrily. Placing her size 12 extra wide boots carefully, she navigated her considerable bulk around the recently departed's outstretched arms, avoiding a few lifeless fingers by mere inches. Smelling tea in the air, the formidable bulk of Mrs. Wortheling steered a course to the back of the book store where the cookies and tea pot waited for her. She sat down with a sigh and stared at the dead man.

"No, it's not an emergency." The sound of KATHRYN ABLE's voice came from her tiny office in the corner. Mrs. Wortheling look up, a fresh cup of Earl Grey in her left hand and oatmeal cookie in the other, and turned to watch Kathryn. "Yes, I'll call the police's business number thank you." Kathryn ended the call and dialed another phone number.

"Yes, police? This Ms. Able at the Romance Most Foul Bookstore. Good morning. There has been a murder," Kathryn said into the telephone. There was a brief pause. "Yes, as far as I can tell there is no emergency." A breath or two later she said, "Yes, I called 911 already. They told me to call this number." There was another pause. "But the emergency seems to be over," she said. Another pause followed. "Yes, I understand that I must not touch anything." It was not a lie . "Yes, I'll be here," she said. She pushed the "End Call" button and set down her phone. She stood up, swaying slightly on her feet as if in a slight breeze. She turned towards Mrs. Wortheling.

"As you can see, there has been a murder."

Kathryn's cell phone rang.

"Romance Most Foul Bookstore. Good morning. There has been a murder. How may I help you? Yes, Sheriff, I made the call. Yes, I will still be here." She ended the call.

Stuffing another cookie into her mouth, Abigail stood up, and together she and Kathryn passed among the bookshelves to visit the man laying quietly on the hand-painted Talavera tile floor.

The man was resting in peace. He was about five feet eleven inches tall, with tawny hair that would have reached his neck if he had been standing. His face was pale at the moment, though Kathryn thought he might have been light brown when he had been walking around among the living. He appeared to be about one hundred forty-five pounds. He wore well-made slacks and a Polo shirt, a cheap wrist watch, and sneakers on his feet. His shirt was bunched up under his armpits, exposing his stomach. His mouth was open in a lopsided sneer, and healthy teeth could be seen inside. He was about 30 years old. His eyes were closed, but Kathryn knew they were an uncommon emerald green . A short streak of blood lead to his back: the result of being pushed aside by Mrs. Wortheling. Kathryn was pleased to see the line of blood, though she felt guilty using her friend to make it. For her plan to succeed, Kathryn needed it there.

"A handsome man," Abigail said. "Well, when he could still smile."

"Yes," Kathryn agreed, "Though his nose was broken long ago."

"Probably when he was very small. The septum was flattened and continued to grow."

Kathryn agreed with a nod.

The two women looked at each other, looked at the handsome man on the floor, then looked at each other again. Kathryn avoided eye contact as if she were guilty of something, but Abigail knew she always did that: Kathryn found eye contact painful. The two looked at the man again.

"So," Abigail said. "Who was he and why is he here on your floor?"

"You mean 'who is he.' He is still among us, it seems," Kathryn said. "And I guess this is as good a floor as any to be dead on."

If anyone else had said this to her, Abigail would think perhaps the speaker was jesting. But Mrs. Wortheling knew how literal-minding her friend was. She also noticed that Kathryn did not answer the questions.

Mrs. Wortheling ate her final cookie, sprinkling the body lightly with crumbs as she hovered over it, much like Godzilla had hovered over Tokyo. "How do you supposed he was killed?"

Kathryn was spared having to evade the question by the bell above the front door jingling again. Kathryn pushed her tousled dark brown hair out of her brown eyes and watched her nearest business neighbor, TONY PINA, step through the door and pause slightly before he stepped over the victim. He looked up from the man resting on the floor and smiled at her.

"Good morning, Kathryn!" he said loudly. Tony's hearing was not what it had been, now that he was pushing eighty years old, but he was still handsome and spry for his age. He made up for his poor hearing by yelling at people so that they would feel compelled to yell back at him.

"Good morning, Tony!" Kathryn as a rule did not yell at people except when they deserved it: she found that as she grew older she encountered more and more people who did. "I hope you are doing well! How's business?"

Tony turned to face the front door and gestured with both arms to his pizza shop across the narrow street.

"Well! You know my chef was called 'The Michelangelo of Pizza' by that idiot food magazine. Well! Now he wants a raise in pay. Santa Fe chefs always believe their own press releases, damn them, and it's spread to Logan. I told him to stand farther away from the oven 'cause the heat must be cooking his brain." He shook his head slowly. "Can't have cooks thinking they're human beings. It would ruin the industry." He smiled at his own witticism.

"Well," said Kathryn, "as you can see we have had a murder!" She did not wonder why Tony had not mentioned it first. Tony, she knew, was a firm believer in people minding their own business: he was born and raised in Los Ángeles de El Barrio where he learned the value of not seeing the dead and wounded.

"I come to ask if you will still have the pizza party this afternoon!"

Kathryn glanced at the man on the floor. "It seems doubtful, Tony. I had better cancel, I suppose."

"Good morning, Mr. Pina!" Mrs. Wortheling did not like being ignored. If she had found the dead man still gasping his last few breaths, she would have made sure to ask him "how are you?" and expect an answer. She did not know the small pizza man well, but her firm conviction was that courtesy applies to strangers more than to friends.

"Good morning Mrs. Wortheling," he said. "You're here early today."

Conversation paused as the happy-sounding bell over the front door tinkled again. The law had arrived.