“I know,” agreed Lucy. “But they say that the spouse is always the first suspect. She didn’t have to do it herself. She might have had a boyfriend, or even hired somebody. She certainly could have afforded to.”

“But why? Why would she kill him?” questioned Ruthie. “He seemed nice enough. And she had everything she could want. That nice little Mercedes, that big house, all those clothes.”

“Money’s not everything,” said Beverly, shaking her head.

“They had separate bedrooms. For all we know, she could have hated him.” Lucy broke off the conversation, nodding her head toward the end of the row of work stations, where George Higham had suddenly appeared.

Karen scuttled off and the rest of the women bent their heads over their desks in an effort to look busy. Lucy hoped he would pass by, or that someone would call with an order, but the indicator on her phone refused to light up. She hunched over her desk and began making a tally of the items she had sold that night.

“Lucy, how are things going?” As George stopped behind her he blocked the overhead light and a shadow fell over her tally sheet.

“Just fine, George. I’ve been selling a lot of slippers.”

“Keep up the good work,” he said, letting his fingers linger as he patted her on the shoulder. Then he moved along down the row.

Lucy stood right up and marched off to the rest room. She resented George touching her, and even though she washed her face with cold water, her cheeks remained flushed with anger.

Back at her station she muttered to Bev, “I think somebody ought to check up on George’s whereabouts last Wednesday night.”

“Just because he’s obnoxious doesn’t make him a murderer,” Bev cautioned her.

“Everyone knows how ambitious he is. And Sam Miller never gave him the time of day. Maybe he figures his chances are a lot better with Tom Miller,” Lucy said darkly.

“Speak of the devil,” whispered Bev. Lucy looked up and saw George and Tom Miller standing together by the door to the phone room. Tom cleared his throat rather loudly, and George rapped on a file cabinet to get the women’s attention.

“I just want to let you know that we’re having a problem here,” said Tom in his high-pitched voice. He paused and the women shifted on their seats, waiting nervously.

“We have a mouse in the house.” He smiled apologetically. “A few field mice have apparently moved into the building.” A few of the women giggled.

“This is a serious problem for us,” he continued. “They could damage the computer. We’ve discussed the options, and I’ve decided the most humane course of action is to trap them.”

He held up a small wire-mesh box.