Twenty Plus Two

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She might have been forty-five, but how can you tell? Her hair was dyed a deep mahogany, she could have had a facial rejuvenation job that took out the little lines and tightened the skin. A good brassiere, an expensive girdle — they can fool you. She might have been fifty-five, even fifty-seven or fifty-eight.

She had never been too attractive a woman. Short, on the plumpish side, her eyes were too close together, her nose too generous, her teeth too large. She could have had men in her younger years, if she had been generous with her favors, but in more recent times she would have had to work pretty hard at it.

However, all of that was over now. Julia Joliet had answered her last fan letter.

She was dead.

It hadn’t been a good death. Her murderer had struck her some savage blows in the face, one of which could have knocked her unconscious. It was probably then that he had ripped out her brassiere and released the more than ample breasts. He had gone even further. He had pulled up her dress, jerked down the too-tight girdle. Only partly, however.

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