The picnic was laid out perfectly. Crystal glasses cradled the pink remains of rosé. A bottle, uncorked and almost empty, bobbed merrily in a pool of water within the confines of a silver ice bucket. Dainty finger sandwiches stacked high with precarious precision rose defiantly from a painted porcelain platter. Glistening like gemstones in the summer sun, a cut glass bowl of fruit salad beckoned with the sickly smell of hot, sweet cantaloup. One of the guests had brought a book to read. It looked as if she had fallen asleep on top of it. Perhaps, she hadn’t found it that interesting. A wine glass had tumbled over, the contents seeping a forever stain into the classic red-checkered blanket, a bleeding-heart shape that threatened to spoil the shortbread cookies. Everyone was cloud gazing, bemused, vacant expressions staring skyward as ants encroached.
I ducked under the black and yellow tape that kept spectators from compromising the crime scene.
My first thought was poison.
