“Something’s not right about this stove,” Detective Sarah Chen muttered, running her gloved hand along the pristine enamel surface.

The kitchen of the Morgan estate gleamed with wealth - marble countertops, copper pots hanging overhead, and a massive professional-grade range that would make any chef envious. Yet Sarah’s trained eye kept returning to that one detail.

“The victim was found here?” she asked the uniformed officer.

“Yes ma’am. Mr. Morgan, face-down right where you’re standing. Blunt force trauma to the head.”

“Inspector, you might want to see this,” called forensics technician James from the pantry. “The murder weapon - a cast iron skillet with blood and hair matching the victim.”

Sarah nodded absently, still focused on the stove. “Mrs. Morgan, could you join us please?”

Eleanor Morgan glided in, perfectly composed in her designer outfit despite the circumstances. “Yes, Detective?”

“How long have you had this range?”

“Oh, Richard had it installed last month. He loved to cook.” Her voice caught slightly on the past tense.

“And was it working properly?”

“I… I’m not sure. I never used it myself.”

Sarah’s eyes narrowed. “The gas connection is incomplete. See this fitting here? It was never properly sealed. One spark and this whole kitchen could have exploded.”

Eleanor’s perfectly manicured hand flew to her throat. “My God…”

“Indeed. And your husband, being such an enthusiastic cook, would certainly have noticed this potentially fatal flaw. Unless…”

“Unless what, Detective?”

“Unless he never actually used it. The range is pristine - no cooking residue, no wear patterns. This was all for show, wasn’t it?”

Eleanor’s composure cracked. “He was having an affair with that waitress from his restaurant. Said he was teaching her to cook. In our home!”

“So when you discovered them here last night…”

“I simply couldn’t bear it. Twenty years of marriage, and he brings his mistress into my kitchen?”

“The skillet was convenient. But first, you disconnected the gas line, hoping it would look like an accident if he tried to use the stove.”

“He was going to leave me with nothing,” Eleanor whispered. “The pre-nup… everything was in his name.”

Sarah gestured to the officer. “Mrs. Morgan, you’re under arrest for the murder of Richard Morgan.”

As they led Eleanor away, James shook his head. “The incomplete stove gave her away? Brilliant deduction.”

“Not really,” Sarah replied quietly. “The real clue was the performance - the grieving widow act. Like that stove, it looked perfect on the surface, but something vital was missing. In my experience, true grief is always messy, raw, imperfect. It’s the polished facades we need to look behind.”

She took one last look at the gleaming kitchen, a monument to appearances that had ultimately proved deadly. Sometimes, she reflected, it’s the incomplete things that tell the most complete truth.