He waved air in front of his face with rapid hand movements. “I won’t argue.”

Marge continued to rifle through the trash. In addition to decomposed produce, there were several discarded cartons of milk, a discarded carton of orange juice, moldy cheese, and old green-tinged deli meat. She tied up the bag and opened the next one. Its contents included a slew of half-used condiments including but not limited to ketchup, mustard, mayo, soy sauce, hot-dog relish, a jar of crystallized strawberry jam, vinegar, wasabi horseradish, maraschino cherries, pearl onions, and pimento-stuffed olives.

Oliver returned to the kitchen about twenty minutes later, just as Marge was tying up the second bag. “There are clothes on the floor and the bed’s unmade.”

“Any signs of a struggle?”

“More like she’s a slob than a crime scene.”

“How about recent sex?”

“No used condoms. The room didn’t smell particularly clean, but it didn’t reek of sperm. The bathroom is also messy, but nothing overtly gruesome like bloody towels or wall spatter. How about you?”

“For a slob, she just did a major cleanup on her kitchen.”

Oliver looked around. Like the first time, there were crusted dishes in the sink and the counters were dirty. “What do you mean? The place is a sty.”

“She cleaned out her refrigerator.” The two of them looked at each other. “Or someone cleaned out her refrigerator.” She wrapped her gloved hand around the handle of an old white Amana and gave it a yank.

An arm flopped down.

No body followed.

The two detectives peered inside. The nude body of Crystal Larabee had been crammed in so tightly that even gravity had failed to dislodge her from her gelid tomb. Shelving had been removed to make room for the corpse. She had been folded into accordion pleats. Her feet had been bent forward at the ankles, her legs folded at the knees so that her thighs sat on her stomach and chest. Her head had been pulled forward, turned to the right, and was smashed between her knees and the top nonremovable shelf.

Oliver blew out air. “You call it in to the coroner’s office. I’ll get the crime-scene kit from the car.”

Marge took out her phone. “While you’re down there, talk to Sela Graydon. We should keep an eye on her.”

“As a potential suspect or a potential victim?”

“Right now I’m thinking victim.” Marge punched in Decker’s phone number. “We don’t know what’s flying. We certainly don’t want a case of two down and one to go.”

SELA WAS IN the backseat of the unmarked. The poor woman had thrown up her dinner. Right now she was shaking and sobbing. “Why…is this…happening?”

“It must seem like a nightmare,” Marge said.