Gemotions

"Madam," the investigator, a young man with a polite demeanor, said, gesturing to the basement, "the evidence suggests..." Clara cut him off. Her voice had a sharp edge. “I'm not interested in suggestions, young man. I’m interested in my afternoon tea.”

He cleared his throat. “The previous owner…”

"Gone," she snapped. "That's all that matters, isn't it? Gone." She’d dealt with worse, the nasty neighbors and the demanding relatives. A dusty old house and its sordid past? Trivial.

The detective, clearly bewildered, continued to press his case. Clara felt a flush creep up her neck. She’d finally found a place that felt right, a place where she could grow her orchids in peace. She wasn't about to let some dusty old file, some long-dead victim, ruin that for her. She glared at him. "Now, if you'll excuse me," she said, her voice laced with steel. "I have a cucumber sandwich waiting."