The atmosphere didn’t crackle with suspense. Nobody felt a shiver of apprehension. Rather, Flo Fenton laughed at the ludicrous sight of a 265-pound woman, in diamonds and a cotton sunsuit, standing precariously on a ladder and reaching for a ripe tomato. . . .
A minute later, the ladder had broken and the “Duchess” was dead. . . .
By some trick of memory, Flo’s mind substituted for the scene before her another picture: herself as a young bride, a blood-smeared wedding dress, and a dead husband.
Was there any connection? Was this, too, murder?
Haunted by the past, horrified by the present, Flo found herself once more pursued by fear—and violent death.