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right?” the same gentleman I’d mowed down asked. He took a few steps closer.
    I waved him away. It was embarrassing enough to be caught bent over and throwing up, without having anyone come too close.
    â€œPoor thing—she’s sick,” the woman said. Rummaging through her pocket, she came out with a tissue, which she handed to me. “Would you like to come in and sit down?”
    I wiped my mouth, and shook my head. I was taking long deep breaths, and my stomach was slowly settling.
    She turned to the others. “Somebody get this lady a glass of water.”
    I suddenly noticed the spittle of vomit on my jeans. Embarrassed, I wiped at it and excused myself. I hurried to my jeep and slipped into my raincoat. When I returned to the group, the younger man was back with a paper cup.
    â€œHere, drink this.”
    After a few sips of water I began feeling more like myself. “Thank you.” The three of them stared at me with worried eyes.
    â€œShe’s looking a little less peaked,” the old man said. He was tall and slender and had gray hair.
    â€œWe have to call the police,” I blurted. “Mr. Swanson is dead. There was so much blood. I think he might have been murdered.” There was a collective gasp.
    â€œHow can you be sure he’s dead?” the woman asked. “What if he’s just passed out? Maybe we should call an ambulance.”
    Should we? I wondered. But I had seen death before and knew what it looked like. There was no question in my mind that Swanson was dead. But it wouldn’t hurt to agree. “Yes. That’s a good idea. I could be wrong.”
    â€œHe can’t be dead,” the younger man said. He looked like he was in his early – to mid-thirties, and was dressed like a professional in a suit and tie. “I just saw him yesterday.” He no sooner had said this than he marched toward the building, as if intent on proving me wrong. He had just entered the building when the gentleman said, “I think I’ll go with him.” He hurried after him. I was wondering if I should join them too, when the woman placed a hand on my arm.
    â€œI’ll wait here with you,” she said. “You’re just starting to recover from the shock. There’s no point in getting yourself all worked up again.” She was right. The nausea had passed, but I still felt weak. “Oh, it’s just too terrible,” she continued. “Poor Mr. Swanson. Surely you’re wrong about him being murdered. It had to have been an accident. Who would want to hurt him? I simply can’t believe it.”
    She had blond hair, blue eyes and the quirkiest eyebrows I’d ever seen. They were penciled in an odd shape. Her dress was too short. She wore a heavy layer of foundation on her face and her oddly bouffant hair was bleached blond. I had the impression of a middle-aged woman trying to look half her age. She gave me a friendly smile.
    â€œThere, there. You’ll be fine.”
    Over the last few minutes more people had come out of the building. Some must have overheard our conversation because there were now half a dozen observers standing around looking shocked and whispering among themselves.
    â€œDo you think anybody called an ambulance yet?” I asked the woman.
    â€œOh, dear. I have no idea. I’ll go do that right now.”
    â€œNever mind,” I said, rummaging through my bag. “I have my cell right here.” In my rush to dial, I dropped my phone not once but twice before I got through.
    â€œNine one one. Do you need the police, an ambulance, or the fire department?” the operator asked.
    â€œPolice, please—and ambulance,” I added.
    â€œWhat’s your emergency, ma’am?”
    â€œI’m calling to report a . . . er . . . I think he’s dead but I could be wrong,” I said, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. “It’s Mr. Swanson,