“I’m here investigating the SueEllen Kingsley murder.”

“Oh, dear.” He seemed flustered. “I already spoke with the police. Didn’t see anything. Not a thing.”

“I’m not with the police. I’m a private investigator. May I come in?”

He hesitated. “Can I see some identification first? Your license?”

What is it with people nowadays? They’re such fussbudgets when it comes to inviting perfect strangers into their homes.

“Um…sure.” I rummaged through my purse and whipped out some identification. I flashed it before his watery blue eyes, hoping he wouldn’t realize it was my YWCA card.

No such luck.

“That’s a YWCA card,” he said, squinting at the print.

“Yes, of course,” I said, pedaling furiously. “YWCA. Young Women’s Criminology Association. We get kidded all the time about our name.”

“The Young Women’s Criminology Association?” He scratched his head, sending tiny flakes of dandruff fluttering to his plaid shoulders.

“So may I come in?”

He thought about this for a moment, then must have decided I wasn’t a deranged maniac with a meat cleaver in my purse.

“All right,” he said finally, ushering me in to the living room.

I took one look around and realized that The Sound of Music door chimes made perfect sense. The place hadn’t been decorated since Julie Andrews was in dirndls. Lots of harvest gold furniture on an avocado shag rug. A grand piano covered with sepiatoned family photos. And over in the corner, an old console television that was probably still playing The Ed Sullivan Show.

“Won’t you sit down?” he said.

I took a seat on a sofa that bore an uncanny resemblance to the one in Rob and Laura Petrie’s house. More family photos were propped up on the coffee table in front of me.

“How can I help you?” he asked, lowering himself into an armchair.

“I’m representing Heidi Kingsley.”

“Little Heidi?” He smiled fondly. “Such a sweet girl.”

“Actually, the police think she killed SueEllen.”

His watery blue eyes blinked in disbelief.

“That’s impossible,” he said vehemently. “She couldn’t have.”

Suddenly hope surged in my body. How could he be so sure Heidi hadn’t done it, unless he’d seen the real murderer himself? Was it possible that he witnessed the crime? Had he kept his mouth shut so he wouldn’t have to confess he’d been using his telescope to look at naked ladies? Had I solved the case in less than an hour?

Now all I had to do was get him to tell me what he’d seen. I’d have to go slowly and gently.

“Heidi swears she saw a blonde woman going into SueEllen’s bathroom at the time of the murder, but the cops don’t believe her.”

He squirmed in his chair.

“I was hoping you might have seen someone,” I prodded.

“No, no,” he said, wiping sweat from his freckled brow. “I saw nothing.”

“Are you sure? SueEllen told me you’re a retired astronomy professor. She says you own a telescope. Are you sure you just didn’t happen to be looking through your telescope that day?”