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tough-looking uniformed officers carrying guns, escorting shackled prisoners, yelling phrases she didn’t understand into phones or walkie-talkies. I could envision her shuddering and withdrawing into herself. She must have felt intense shame at her predicament, so much so that she hadn’t even asked to call home. What could she say? What could they do? She must have been panicked about what her arrest would mean to her mother and sisters, their horrified reaction, the damage to her reputation—and theirs—in our tight-knit community, not to mention the financial burden it would impose on a family living from paycheck to paycheck. Janet had already said she couldn’t afford a lawyer to advise her daughter on her rights regarding ownership of her songs. The cost of a good criminal defense lawyer would be that much more, not counting bail money to release her from jail, assuming a judge would even consider setting bail for an accused murderer.
    The sound of the door opening snapped me out of my reverie.
    “I thought I heard somebody up here,” said a young woman, who peeked through the partially open door. All that was visible was a crown of platinum blond hair and blue eyes framed by sky blue eye shadow and thick black lashes. “Are you Cyndi’s mama?” she asked in a heavy Southern accent.
    “No, a friend of the family.” I got up and opened the door wider so I could get a better look at my visitor. “I’m Jessica Fletcher. Who are you?”
    “I’m Alicia. Alicia Piedmont. I live downstairs, right under Cyndi.”
    Alicia was of medium height and looked like she spent a lot of time in the gym. She wore a powder blue sweat suit with the zippered front hanging open to reveal an orange marbleized tank top that stopped well above her navel and emphasized her full bosom. Her bright blond hair was pulled back into a curly ponytail held by a blue fabric-covered elastic. She wore silver Mary-Jane sneakers.
    “I’m glad you’re not her mama,” she said. “I wouldn’t know what to say to her.”
    “You know, of course, what’s happened to Cyndi.”
    “I just found out yesterday. It was in the newspaper, on the front page. I wondered where Cyndi was. She hasn’t been here, and believe me, I’d know if she was. If you think the walls are thin, you should hear what I hear through the ceiling. The girl before Cyndi used to bounce on her bed on purpose, making the springs rattle. Then she’d take off her shoes and throw them across the room at the closet, one by one. You know that phrase ‘waiting for the other shoe to drop’? Well, that was me, in person. Sometimes she would only throw one shoe. Just one. I never knew if she left the other one on, or if she tiptoed across the room and put it in the closet. I think she did it just to drive me crazy. Know what I mean? Anyway, I was glad when she left. Cyndi’s much quieter. I told her when she first got here that if she ever brought a boyfriend up, I’d be the first to know. Oh, but you don’t have to worry. She didn’t. She’s a real goody-goody girl. But I’m sure you know that.”
    She’d walked past me while rattling on and wandered around the room, hand trailing along the front of the sink, across the curtain covering the closet opening, over the back of the chair, over the top of the dresser/night table. She picked up Cyndi’s perfume, sprayed it into the air, and leaned forward to catch the droplets in her hair as they fell. She paused by the side of the bed and sat heavily on it, bouncing up and down as she’d said the previous tenant had. “I feel so bad for her,” she said mournfully.
    Was she about to cry? I didn’t think so, although it appeared that she was attempting to summon tears.
    “You and Cyndi were close friends?” I asked, taking the desk chair.
    “Not really. She’s only been here a couple of weeks.”
    “How long have you been here?” I asked.
    “Too long, I guess. What I mean is, sometimes I think about heading back home,