“Could the navy cross-body leather bag be a Gucci? What if she bought it yesterday and the shopping bag was empty?” said Sean. “Maybe she had just purchased it at the Gucci store?”

Zoe took a big gulp of her ice tea and wiped her mouth. “You might be onto something. Let’s go to the Gucci store on Fifth Avenue and see if anyone remembers them,” said Zoe. Sean gave her the thumbs-up sign while nodding enthusiastically.

“Now, let’s do a profile on the husband,” Zoe continued. “He had a slight limp.”

“I didn’t notice that.”

“I write mysteries,” said Zoe. “I’m trained to notice everything. Write that down.” Sean made another note. “He had on a navy New York City firefighter’s hat and was wearing a NY Rangers face mask. He could be a fireman who likes hockey?”

“Or, someone who just supports the FDNY,” said Sean, “or has a neighbor who’s a firefighter who gave him the hat.”

Zoe made a face, finished her drink and went into the kitchen to refill her glass.

“The husband looked like he was in his late thirties or early forties. He was wearing beige shorts and a light-green T-shirt that said “Eat Mo’ Pie”, Sean shouted loud enough for Zoe to hear from the kitchen. “What does that mean?”

“He likes pie,” she yelled back.

Sean shook his head. “I like pie, too, but I don’t wear T-shirts broadcasting it. And, pie isn’t particularly healthy. Why would someone wear a shirt that extols the virtues of something that’s bad for you? Do you know how many people in this country have hypertension?”

“Okay, you’re getting way off track now,” said Zoe as she sat down at the table.

“Fine. What else?”

Zoe looked off into space and narrowed her eyes. “I believe that woman is a very sophisticated killer. Don’t forget, when she texted her homicidal boyfriend she had the good sense to use a different untraceable phone.”

“How do you know it’s untraceable?”

“What else could it be? When she was texting someone about a hair appointment, she definitely used an iPhone. The Android is definitely the burner phone she’ll toss right after she bumps off her husband.”

“And don’t forget what her boyfriend’s name is,” said Sean, writing a note on a piece of paper.

Zoe scrunched up her face and then smiled. “Sr. Bello.”

“Exactly,” said Sean. “Bello means beautiful in Italian. Mr. Beautiful. She must be Italian then. Zoe, we have our first definite clue.”

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