Murder. Murder here in the heart of sleepy white-picket-fence Washington, D.C.! And on Thanksgiving, too. Not that the house is terribly surprised by that; it’s held enough holidays to know that when you throw all that family together and mix with too much rum punch and buried resentment, blood is bound to be shed sometimes. But the scene that erupted tonight and splashed gore from the threshold to the attic . . . Goodness, but it’s a doozy. There’s a corpse on the floor of the second attic apartment, spilling a lake of blood from a throat cut nearly to the bone.
