The officer grinned. “I know I was told to keep you here, and I’m going to keep you here. Right now, Mrs. Cool, I don’t hardly know a single thing outside of that.”
Bertha lapsed into indignant silence.
Abruptly the door opened. Sergeant Sellers walked in, made a slight signal to the officer, and grinned at Bertha Cool. “Hi, Bertha.”
Bertha glowered at him.
“What’s the matter, Bertha, you don’t seem happy?”
“Happy! If you think that I— Oh, hell!”
Sellers settled himself in the chair. “How did you know she was dead?”
Bertha took a deep breath. “I felt her flesh. It was cold. I smelled the odour of decomposition. She didn’t move when I touched her. I called to her. She didn’t answer, didn’t move. I realized she’d been there in that same position for three days. And then it dawned on me, Sergeant, all in a flash — like those brilliant inspirations the police get. I said to myself, ‘My God, she’s dead!’”
“Nice stuff, Bertha. That isn’t what I meant. How did you know she was dead before you went to the garage?”
“I didn’t.”