woman had sunk onto the lowermost stair and had one hand pressed to her chest as she drew labored breaths.
Oh, damn . I hovered on the threshold, pulled in two directions. On the one hand, my Beetle, escape, and freedom beckoned me. On the other, if the old woman was having a heart attack or a stroke, I couldn’t leave her to die. I could call 911 once I was on the road, my practical side said. She could be dead by then, my more compassionate side pointed out. Aaagh . I took one step onto the veranda, then turned back with a muffled curse and ran to the woman.
Her eyes widened as I approached, but I knelt beside her and said, “I’ll call for an ambulance.” I fumbled for my cell phone.
The woman, a line of pale blue ringing her lips, said, “Pills. Purse. Kitchen.” Her voice got weaker with every word.
I raced to the kitchen and saw a purse that hadn’t been there earlier sitting in the middle of the granite-topped island. It was about the size of a book, with a rigid bottom so it sat upright, dual handles curving upward. Snapping it open, I dug through it, locating the pill bottle without trouble, since the purse held only a thin wallet, keys, a glasses case, and a tin of breath mints. I dashed back to the woman, unscrewing the bottle as I went and tipping some pills into my hand.
Giving me a grateful look, she plucked a tablet from my palm and tucked it under her tongue, closing her eyes.
“Should I call nine-one-one?”
A slight head shake answered me. I hovered near her, shifting from foot to foot, my fingers bouncing on the phone’s keys, until the blue tinge disappeared and her breathing came more easily. “I’m so sorry I scared you,” I said.
“You’re a peculiar kind of thief,” she said, eyes snapping open, voice more robust.
“I’m not a thief!”
The old woman peered over the tops of her glasses. “Of course you’re a thief. You broke into this house.”
“As far as that goes,” I said, rearing back, “you broke in, too.”
“I did not.” She glared at me. “I live here.”
“Do not. Corinne Blakely lived here, and she died.” We eyed each other with mutual suspicion.
“I worked for her for nigh on fifty years. Half a century.” Sorrow weighted her words.
“You must be Mrs. Laughlin!”
“How did you know that? We haven’t met, have we?” She scanned my face in the way people do when they’re afraid they ought to recognize you but can’t quite dredge up a name. An extra anxiety wrinkled her brow: the anxiety of an aging woman afraid she was losing it.
“No. I was here earlier today with Maurice Goldberg and he mentioned you.”
Mrs. Laughlin relaxed a tad and let me help her to her feet. “Maurice is a good man. He was good for Corinne, the only one of her husbands she shouldn’t have divorced.”
“Did you know them all?”
“All except the first one. He passed before I came here to work.”
“You came from England?” The faintest trace of an accent had been nagging at me, but now I placed it.
“Canterbury.”
“I go to Blackpool every year. I love England.”
She allowed herself a tiny smile. “You must be a ballroom dancer.”
I offered her my hand. “Stacy Graysin. Maurice teaches at my studio.”
Mrs. Laughlin shook my hand, her grip firm, although her skin felt as thin as tissue paper. “I could use a cuppa. Why don’t we sit in the kitchen and you can tell me what you’re doing here, if it’s not thieving.”
I trailed her back to the kitchen, where she filled a stainless-steel teapot and put it on the range. I perched on a bar stool drawn up to a breakfast bar. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “I thought Turner said . . . you didn’t work here anymore.” I opted not to say the F-word—fired.
“That twit fired me this morning,” she said with an affronted sniff. “About ten minutes after he found out dear Corinne had passed. I worked here for more than twice as long as he is old, and he turns me off with no
Oh, damn . I hovered on the threshold, pulled in two directions. On the one hand, my Beetle, escape, and freedom beckoned me. On the other, if the old woman was having a heart attack or a stroke, I couldn’t leave her to die. I could call 911 once I was on the road, my practical side said. She could be dead by then, my more compassionate side pointed out. Aaagh . I took one step onto the veranda, then turned back with a muffled curse and ran to the woman.
Her eyes widened as I approached, but I knelt beside her and said, “I’ll call for an ambulance.” I fumbled for my cell phone.
The woman, a line of pale blue ringing her lips, said, “Pills. Purse. Kitchen.” Her voice got weaker with every word.
I raced to the kitchen and saw a purse that hadn’t been there earlier sitting in the middle of the granite-topped island. It was about the size of a book, with a rigid bottom so it sat upright, dual handles curving upward. Snapping it open, I dug through it, locating the pill bottle without trouble, since the purse held only a thin wallet, keys, a glasses case, and a tin of breath mints. I dashed back to the woman, unscrewing the bottle as I went and tipping some pills into my hand.
Giving me a grateful look, she plucked a tablet from my palm and tucked it under her tongue, closing her eyes.
“Should I call nine-one-one?”
A slight head shake answered me. I hovered near her, shifting from foot to foot, my fingers bouncing on the phone’s keys, until the blue tinge disappeared and her breathing came more easily. “I’m so sorry I scared you,” I said.
“You’re a peculiar kind of thief,” she said, eyes snapping open, voice more robust.
“I’m not a thief!”
The old woman peered over the tops of her glasses. “Of course you’re a thief. You broke into this house.”
“As far as that goes,” I said, rearing back, “you broke in, too.”
“I did not.” She glared at me. “I live here.”
“Do not. Corinne Blakely lived here, and she died.” We eyed each other with mutual suspicion.
“I worked for her for nigh on fifty years. Half a century.” Sorrow weighted her words.
“You must be Mrs. Laughlin!”
“How did you know that? We haven’t met, have we?” She scanned my face in the way people do when they’re afraid they ought to recognize you but can’t quite dredge up a name. An extra anxiety wrinkled her brow: the anxiety of an aging woman afraid she was losing it.
“No. I was here earlier today with Maurice Goldberg and he mentioned you.”
Mrs. Laughlin relaxed a tad and let me help her to her feet. “Maurice is a good man. He was good for Corinne, the only one of her husbands she shouldn’t have divorced.”
“Did you know them all?”
“All except the first one. He passed before I came here to work.”
“You came from England?” The faintest trace of an accent had been nagging at me, but now I placed it.
“Canterbury.”
“I go to Blackpool every year. I love England.”
She allowed herself a tiny smile. “You must be a ballroom dancer.”
I offered her my hand. “Stacy Graysin. Maurice teaches at my studio.”
Mrs. Laughlin shook my hand, her grip firm, although her skin felt as thin as tissue paper. “I could use a cuppa. Why don’t we sit in the kitchen and you can tell me what you’re doing here, if it’s not thieving.”
I trailed her back to the kitchen, where she filled a stainless-steel teapot and put it on the range. I perched on a bar stool drawn up to a breakfast bar. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “I thought Turner said . . . you didn’t work here anymore.” I opted not to say the F-word—fired.
“That twit fired me this morning,” she said with an affronted sniff. “About ten minutes after he found out dear Corinne had passed. I worked here for more than twice as long as he is old, and he turns me off with no
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