I introduce Chase and myself, show her my badge. She peers at us through thick glasses, nods a gray head, and welcomes us inside. We sit in a dim living room that smells faintly of moth balls, mold, and dogs. The furniture is dark and worn, and the room is cluttered from years of living. She’s a tiny woman, probably doesn’t weigh as much as the huge dog sitting at attention next to her armchair.

“Can I get you two any coffee?” she asks.

“No, thank you, Mrs. Murray,” I say. “Nice dog.”

“Percy? Yes, he’s a good boy.”

I wonder how someone so small manages such a big animal, but the answer lies in the bric-a-brac scattered through the room. Yellowed and curling ribbons from dog shows decades in the past hang from every picture frame. Photos of, I assume, a young Mrs. Murray wearing poofy fifties skirts, holding the leads of majestic dogs, sit on every end table.

“My husband and I raised show dogs for years.” She sighs. “Those were good times.”

I tap my pencil against my notebook, and I can’t help myself from sketching Percy’s great ears. “You know about Dr. Bradley’s death, Mrs. Murray?”

“Oh, yes. What an awful shame. I was at church yesterday morning, then I went to see my daughter, so I was out when the hubbub next door was going on.” She shakes her head and dabs a handkerchief under her nose. “I can’t believe it.”

“Did you know the Bradleys well?”

“No. Not too. They haven’t been here long. I waved when I saw them coming or going. He was real nice. Took my garbage to the curb a time or two. Told me to let them know if I ever needed anything. A handsome man.”

“What about Mrs. Bradley?”

“I didn’t see her as much. She’d wave, but she always acted like she was in a hurry. No time to chat. I thought she was a little snooty, but my daughter says she just might be shy.” Mrs. Murray shrugs. “I feel bad for her. My husband and I were married fifty-two years. I was lucky.”

“We need to know if you saw or heard anything Saturday night. You were home?”

“Oh, yes. I don’t go out too much anymore. Just to my daughter’s. I was home. I saw the cars next door after dinner. I figured they had company again.”

“They entertain a lot?”

“Fairly often. There are cars over there quite often.”

“What time did you go to bed Saturday night?”

“Ten-thirty. After the first half of the news.”

“Did you get up at all in the night?”

“I don’t usually get up until morning, five-thirty or so. I sleep pretty good for an old lady.” She smiles, proud of this accomplishment, as she should be, I think with chagrin. A good night’s sleep isn’t as easy for me as it once was. I don’t want to attribute it to age, but...

“Did you get up Saturday night?”