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by E. X. Ferrars (Author)
Virginia's trouble is that whenever something awful happens, it is far too easy to imagine that her husband, Felix, is behind it somehow. She doesn't want to believe this; after all, even if they haven't lived together for ages, at one time she was terribly fond of him. He's quite charming, he dresses well, he knows wine...he would have been a perfectly satisfactory husband if he weren't such an utter cad He lies, you see. He lies the way other people brush hair off their foreheads, all the time and without even noticing they're doing it.
Virginia has even managed to tell herself that this is a useful trait, that because Felix is such a scoundrel, he has a special genius for sniffing out other people's lies, and this makes him a good detective. And perhaps he is, but there's no denying that when awful things happen, Felix is often nearby. The latest awfulness is a local writer shot dead on the eve of her engagement—and right on time, Felix has turned up, like a charming, well-dressed, bad penny.
