“I turned the key in the lock of the third-floor apartment and walked in. The French doors had been secured; with no window open, the place was humid and stuffy. I dropped the bag containing Wayne’s shoes on the sofa and opened the doors wide, letting a breeze into the room. The spicy scent of cooking came with it, but the freshness of the draft washed away the leaden air of death, lightening my mood.I sat on the sofa, pulled out Wayne’s black-and-white spectator shoes, and set them on top of th...e bag on the coffee table. Someone at the funeral home had stuffed them with newspaper to retain their shape. I inspected the heels and was surprised to see very few scuff marks. I had suspected that Wayne had been killed elsewhere and later placed at the crypt in the cemetery. But if his body had been moved, his shoes probably would bear the evidence. Wayne was no lightweight. Unless someone was able to pick him up without dragging his feet on the ground—an unconvincing scenario—there would have been heavy scuffing of the heels or other parts of the shoes as the body was pulled into position.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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