Confess, Fletch

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To Judy and Lew, Susie and Chuck, Stuart, Karen and Robert, Jennette and Alan, HoRo, HoHo, Susi, Chris and Doug.

One

Fletch snapped on the light and looked into the den.

Except for the long windows and the area over the desk, the walls were lined with books. There were two red leather wing chairs in the room, a small divan, and a coffee table.

On the little desk was a black telephone.

Fletch dialed “0.”

“Get me the police, please.”

“Is this an emergency?”

“Not at the moment.”

The painting over the desk was a Ford Madox Brown—a country couple wrapped against the wind.

“Then please dial ‘555-7523.’”

“Thank you.”

He did so.

“Sergeant McAuliffe speaking.”

“Sergeant, this is Mister Fletcher, 152 Beacon Street, apartment 6B.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s a murdered girl in my living room.”

“A what girl?”

“Murdered.”

Naked, her breasts and hips full, her stomach lean, she lay on her back between the coffee table and the divan. Her head was on the hardwood floor in the space between the carpet and the fireplace. Her face, whiter than the areas a kept from the sum by her bikini, eyes staring, looked as if she were about to complain of some minor discomfort, such as, “Move your arm, will you?” or “Your watchband is scratching me.”

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