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A brief Murder Mystery Scene (fiction)

He died on a Tuesday.  

Three days later he lays diminished before us in a dark suit, starched handkerchief and Gucci shoes.  He would have hated the shoes.  Those of us who knew him knew he wouldn’t be caught dead in Gucci shoes--well apparently he would be. 

“He looks so peaceful,” they say.

“He’s dead,” I remind them, lest they forget they never watched him live, only watched him die.

She looks appalled, sharp intake of breath, pursed lips, anger, then its gone—and I quickly follow

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