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Revenge of the Furred

He tossed his keys in the bowl and hollered “I'm home!” The apartment was as silent as a tomb, something he'd read in a potboiler the night before, and repeated silently to himself all day. Now he said it aloud, then called her name. There was no answer. Her fur stole, lying askew on the floor, looked somehow larger, fuller, than he remembered. He'd never approved of fur, but of course never said anything to her about it. The stole was leopard, and, he had to admit, striking.

a deep-throated cough
a leopard-fur coat, size large,
lay on the floor