'It's not a suicide,' a voice shouted from the doorway.

Homicide Lieutenant Lucinda Pierce ignored the noise and focused on absorbing the scene around her. To the left, against the wall, a black lacquer table with curved legs bore a large white and red vase containing a greenhouseful of red roses and white lilies. The petals appeared to be as soft as chamois. The floral arrangement overwhelmed the residential space in its size and expense – more suited for a hotel lobby or the entrance of a too–pricey restaurant.

A field of stark white marble veined with black stretched beneath Lucinda's feet. The stone led to two broad steps stretching wall–to–wall. It, too, seemed too much – too grand for a place called home. Beyond the marble flooring, wide heart of pine planks led into an expansive living room populated by white and red chairs and sofas and black lacquer tables. The room ended with floor–to–ceiling glass that bowed out toward the James River as if yearning to set sail.

Directly in front of her, right above the marble steps, an arched walkway, like a bridge over a small stream, spanned from one side of the second floor to the other – the top railing of black lacquer supported by the warm tones of aged pine spindles. Near the center of the walkway, a wooden chair with an upholstered seat pushed against the rail. Attached to the railing, a thick yellow rope formed a dense knot, suspending the body of a middle–aged woman.

'Someone murdered my wife,' the voice from the doorway said. Lucinda assumed it was the voice of Frank Eagleton, the male resident of the home.

Lucinda turned around and faced him. A tall, well–built man in a charcoal suit, striped tie and Italian loafers leaned into the room between the two uniformed officers blocking his access. A very good but still perceptible hairpiece perched on the top of his head. Deep–set blue eyes flashed, his full, lower lip stuck out in defiance. He gave the appearance of a man who was unused to being ignored.

Turning to Sergeant Robin Colter, Lucinda whispered, 'Get the husband away from the doorway. Do it nicely. But make sure the uniforms keep him outside on the premises.' Lucinda returned to her examination. Below the woman's feet, the bright red soles of a pair of Louboutin black spiked heels slashed across the white marble like a fresh wound.

The deceased, presumably Candace Eagleton – the only female living at this address – wore a black pencil skirt and a stark white silk blouse. Around her neck, a light green stone pendant hung from a gold chain. The same stone was in her earrings and on the ring finger of her right hand. Was the way she was dressed telling? Was she on her way out? Did she dress like that around the house, or did she put on a favorite outfit to commit suicide?

Was there significance to the display of the body? No one opening the door could miss her. The high–vaulted ceilings in the foyer seemed to press down, forcing all eyes in the direction of the deceased woman. Beyond the elevated walkway, the ceilings soared up again in the sun–drenched room beyond. Was that her last moment of theatre? Did she want to make sure her husband noticed her at last? Or was her prominent location an arrogant slap from a killer?

'Money can't buy you love.'

Lucinda grinned and turned toward the sound of the familiar gruff voice of the coroner. 'Doc Sam! Is that what you think this is all about – love?'

'Of course. She either felt unloved and, thus, ended her miserable existence. Or she was unloved and that person snatched her life away. Love or the lack of it is a backdrop to every story.' The word love sounded incongruous falling off the lips of an old curmudgeon with a balding head of wispy hair and rumpled clothes.

'Are you becoming a romantic in your old age?'

'I'm not too old to show up at yet another of your crime scenes, Pierce,' he said as he tugged on a Tyvec suit and booties.

'True. But love, Doc Sam?' The eyebrow above her good eye arched nearly to her hairline.

'I'm not getting senile, if that's what you think. Blame my granddaughter. She keeps telling me about my lack of faith in humankind and my permanent state of surly cynicism – she actually used that phrase, just fifteen years old and she threw "surly cynicism" at me. Anyway, she nags me to look for the positive, look for the silver lining, look for the love.'

'And you're actually listening and following her advice?'

'She's my granddaughter, Pierce. My only granddaughter. I'm trying but your surly cynicism doesn't make it easy.'

Lucinda laughed and faced the body presumed to be Candace Eagleton once again. 'The husband says it's not a suicide.'

'And that surprises you, Pierce? What family does believe a loved one could take their own life?'