Judging Time by Leslie Glass

thought.
    He was scratching the side of his nose, considering her list of suspects in her husband's death. Drugs, hit men. Jealous husbands. Interesting.
    "Did you know who your husband was with last night?" he asked gently.
    She shook her head. "Who?"
    "Merrill Liberty," April said.
    Daphne's breath caught on a gulp of smoke. "Is she-"
    April nodded.
    "She's dead, too? Jesus!" She looked out the window.
    Outside it was not yet light. The heat was just coming up in the Petersens' Fifth Avenue living room, which faced the fountain still ringed with Christmas trees in front of the Plaza Hotel, the huge menorah on the park side of the street with all its lights ablaze, and the section of Central Park bordering Central Park South. There were so many arresting views available that April hardly knew which way to look. Mike wasn't having any problems on that score. He was concentrated on the widow.
    Daphne's breasts were several cups too large to stand up as high as they did with no visible means of support. April guessed they were not as nature had formed them. She also guessed the robe cost more than a sergeant's salary for several months. But there was no way of estimating the value of the ruby-studded, heart-shaped pendant the size of a plum that dangled from a heavy gold chain just above Daphne's cleavage. Mike raised his crooked eyebrow at April The second trophy wife in the case.
    April nodded imperceptibly as she watched Daphne stub out her cigarette and take a second from the package. Yeah., and this one is the survivor.
    "What do you mean, jealous husband?" April asked.
    "I don't know. I was being smart. I didn't know he'd get mad enough to kill them." Daphne studied the cigarette, then lit it with a match from a giveaway matchbook.
    "Who?"
    "Well, Liberty, of course." She put her hand to her mouth. "They were very close friends—it's hard to—"
    "Liberty and your husband?"
    "Well, the three of them. Tor was best man at their wedding."
    "Did you know where your husband was going last night?"
    Daphne lifted a shoulder. "I wasn't here when he went out."
    "Where were you?"
    She tossed her head. "In church."
    Mike hid a smile.
    "Which one?" April asked.
    "Saint Patrick's."
    "What time was that?"
    "How would I know? I wasn't here."
    "What time did you go out, Mrs. Petersen?"
    "Ten-fifteen. A.M."
    "And that was the last time you saw your husband?"
    She nodded. "How were they killed?"
    "We don't have a cause of death on your husband yet," April said. "He may have died of a heart attack—"
    "What? Really?" The woman blew a cloud of smoke out of her nose. Confused, she tapped the cigarette on the side of a crystal ashtray already full of butts. "I thought you said he was murdered."
    "Did we?"
    "Yes, you said—" She scowled at April. "He wasn't murdered? Then what killed them—drugs . . . ?"
    "Was your husband involved in drugs?" Mike asked.
    "What do you mean 'involved'? You mean selling?" Daphne shook the curls. "He was rich. He didn't need to." She scowled some more. "He did like his snow-flakes though, didn't he?"
    "Your husband was a cocaine user?"
    "Oh yes, and woman user, too." Daphne fondled the heavy ruby heart between her breasts. "He loved rubies,". she murmured. "What about Merrill? Did she have a heart attack, too?"
    "She was stabbed in the neck," Mike said bluntly.
    "O000." Shocked, Daphne clutched her throat. Then she inhaled with a wincing noise. "O000."
    For the ten thousandth time April thought people were weird. First the well-dressed black man with the terrible headache. And now the trophy wife with the artificial boobs who reacted more to the death of Merrill Liberty than to that of her husband. Weird. April felt a tickle at the back of her throat and fought a desire to sneeze. The tickle didn't come from the cigarette smoke. It came from her suspicious nature.
    Mike coughed delicately. "Did you expect your husband home last night?"
    Daphne shrugged. "With Tor, one doesn't expect. One takes things as they