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Unformatted text preview: 79 Whatever, when they'd called to say Mandy Mayfair was dead too, he had not been able to respond. Mona had been at his elbow. "Give me that phone," she'd said. Mandy Mayfair had died about twelve o'clock today. That was midway between Edith's death and Alicia's. Mandy had obviously been dressing for Gifford's funeral. Her prayer book and her rosary had been on the bed. The windows of her French Quarter apartment were wide open to the little courtyard. Anyone could have come over that wall. There was no other sign of foul play, as they said, or forced entry. Mandy had been on the bathroom floor, knees drawn up, arms locked around her waist. There were flowers scattered all around her. Even the police had figured out they came from the courtyard garden. Sprigs of lantana which had bloomed again in the warm months after Christ- mas. All those little orange and purple blossoms had been broken up on top of her. Now, no one was going to call this a "natural death" or the result of some mysterious illness. But Pierce could get no further than that in his reasoning....
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10