Fog clung to the cobblestones like a damp, cold shroud. Detective Harding surveyed the grim scene with tired eyes. A lone streetlamp cast long, dancing shadows near. Mrs. Gable lay still, a tragic, silent tableau. Crimson stained her pristine, expensive silk blouse. Her eyes stared wide, a silent, horrified question. The air hung heavy with the scent of decay. A single, delicate porcelain teacup shattered near. Someone had wanted her gone, very, very badly. Harding sighed, another puzzle, another life ended.