Spadina Streetcar, really into it.

Caucasian woman, 60s, with short red hair, bright red lipstick and purple eye shadow, wearing gold rimmed glasses, checkered wool coat, and wool fisherman's cap, biting her pinkie fingernail.

Postmortem, Patricia Cornwell (Pocket)

Page 6:

An open doorway led into a corridor running the length of the house. To my right appeared a series of rooms, to the left was the kitchen, where Marino and a young officer were talking to the man I assumed was the husband.

The man beside her has been drinking. He sits with his hands carefully placed in his lap, elbows in. He stares straight ahead, his expression soft, an attempt to look unthreatening. She's detected the smell, her hand in front of her face a cautious attempt to block his booze. But while she enters the pages of her crime novel, she misses a clue, the tear at his collar, the smear on his neck in the shape of a hand.