kitchen, hurt evident in the set of his shoulders. I’d make it up to him later, I told myself as I lunged for the phone. Later.
“What’s wrong with Wayne?” asked a new voice at the kitchen doorway. Damn. It was Trent, looking trim and distinguished in a polo shirt and slacks.
“It’s Vesta,” I said. “She’s very sick.”
His brows shot up, brown eyes wide for a moment.
“Actually, I think she’s probably dead,” I went on. I had to tell someone or I’d never be able to get to the phone. “But I need to call an ambulance, just in case.”
Trent nodded reassuringly, his face taking on the same Skeritt look of low-browed concern as Ace’s had. “Heart?” he asked quietly.
I shrugged my shoulders impatiently. I wasn’t ready to talk to anyone about causes. Not even myself.
“Shall I explain to the others?” he offered.
“Yes, please,” I breathed gratefully.
He turned and went back into the living room. I heard the drone of his steady, resonant voice as I picked up the telephone receiver. Then a few gasps, a deep groan and a couple of high-pitched questions.
I punched out 9-1-1.
And heard a shriek of pure terror. Was that Wayne? I dropped the receiver back into its cradle and rushed into the living room, looking for Wayne past all the other members of the Skeritt family.
But it was Eric, not Wayne, who was shrieking. Eric stood at the foot of the stairs with his mouth wide and his chubby face distorted by fear. Ace jumped up and ran to the boy.
“She’s dead!” Eric screamed. “I’m gonna hurl!” Then he sprinted toward the guest bathroom, with Ace galloping close behind him.
I turned my gaze back to Wayne. There was a little more color in his face, but his eyes were still dead. As Ingrid patted his hand gently, I turned away and took a step back toward the kitchen. The doorbell rang again.
Damn. Who the hell was left?
I yanked open the front door and saw Clara Kushiyama.
“Clara!” I shouted and wrapped my arms around her short, stocky body.
It took me less than a minute to whisper the details nonstop into her ear. Clara was halfway up the stairs when the phone rang.
Trent got to the phone first.
“Yes, there is an emergency,” I heard him say calmly into the receiver. “Yes, a call was made.” He put his hand over the phone for a moment. “Do we need an ambulance?” he asked me.
“Wait,” I ordered and ran back into the living room.
Clara was descending the staircase, her gentle face solemn. And troubled.
“Do we need an ambulance?” I relayed the question.
She shook her head slowly. I heard a gasp from somewhere behind me, and a thin trickle of whispered conversation. I looked over my shoulder to see who was talking.
“But Kate,” came Clara’s voice, tugging my head back around with its insistence. “I’m afraid we need the police.”
- Five -
“The police!” Harmony shrieked. “No! You can’t call the police. They’ll blame me, right? I know they will.”
Her hands were as agitated as her mouth. Moments before, her right hand had stroked a crystal at her throat while her left had fingered a clump of crosses hanging from her jacket fringe. But as she shrieked, both hands began racing from jacket fringe to necklace to earrings and back again, as if trying and failing to touch every amulet at the same time.
“The visitors will convince them,” she bleated. They can do that, right? Then they’ll blame me for everything—”
“There, there,” Clara crooned softly, at Harmony’s side in an instant. She reached up to stroke the taller woman’s bush of blond hair. “You’ll be just fine. Just keep breathing—”
“But why do we need the police?” demanded a new female voice from my left.
I swiveled my head and saw Lori, dressed like a parrot today in shades of bright green, scarlet and turquoise. But her face wasn’t as cheerful as her clothing. She frowned and pointed a long, scarlet fingernail at Harmony. “What’s
“What’s wrong with Wayne?” asked a new voice at the kitchen doorway. Damn. It was Trent, looking trim and distinguished in a polo shirt and slacks.
“It’s Vesta,” I said. “She’s very sick.”
His brows shot up, brown eyes wide for a moment.
“Actually, I think she’s probably dead,” I went on. I had to tell someone or I’d never be able to get to the phone. “But I need to call an ambulance, just in case.”
Trent nodded reassuringly, his face taking on the same Skeritt look of low-browed concern as Ace’s had. “Heart?” he asked quietly.
I shrugged my shoulders impatiently. I wasn’t ready to talk to anyone about causes. Not even myself.
“Shall I explain to the others?” he offered.
“Yes, please,” I breathed gratefully.
He turned and went back into the living room. I heard the drone of his steady, resonant voice as I picked up the telephone receiver. Then a few gasps, a deep groan and a couple of high-pitched questions.
I punched out 9-1-1.
And heard a shriek of pure terror. Was that Wayne? I dropped the receiver back into its cradle and rushed into the living room, looking for Wayne past all the other members of the Skeritt family.
But it was Eric, not Wayne, who was shrieking. Eric stood at the foot of the stairs with his mouth wide and his chubby face distorted by fear. Ace jumped up and ran to the boy.
“She’s dead!” Eric screamed. “I’m gonna hurl!” Then he sprinted toward the guest bathroom, with Ace galloping close behind him.
I turned my gaze back to Wayne. There was a little more color in his face, but his eyes were still dead. As Ingrid patted his hand gently, I turned away and took a step back toward the kitchen. The doorbell rang again.
Damn. Who the hell was left?
I yanked open the front door and saw Clara Kushiyama.
“Clara!” I shouted and wrapped my arms around her short, stocky body.
It took me less than a minute to whisper the details nonstop into her ear. Clara was halfway up the stairs when the phone rang.
Trent got to the phone first.
“Yes, there is an emergency,” I heard him say calmly into the receiver. “Yes, a call was made.” He put his hand over the phone for a moment. “Do we need an ambulance?” he asked me.
“Wait,” I ordered and ran back into the living room.
Clara was descending the staircase, her gentle face solemn. And troubled.
“Do we need an ambulance?” I relayed the question.
She shook her head slowly. I heard a gasp from somewhere behind me, and a thin trickle of whispered conversation. I looked over my shoulder to see who was talking.
“But Kate,” came Clara’s voice, tugging my head back around with its insistence. “I’m afraid we need the police.”
- Five -
“The police!” Harmony shrieked. “No! You can’t call the police. They’ll blame me, right? I know they will.”
Her hands were as agitated as her mouth. Moments before, her right hand had stroked a crystal at her throat while her left had fingered a clump of crosses hanging from her jacket fringe. But as she shrieked, both hands began racing from jacket fringe to necklace to earrings and back again, as if trying and failing to touch every amulet at the same time.
“The visitors will convince them,” she bleated. They can do that, right? Then they’ll blame me for everything—”
“There, there,” Clara crooned softly, at Harmony’s side in an instant. She reached up to stroke the taller woman’s bush of blond hair. “You’ll be just fine. Just keep breathing—”
“But why do we need the police?” demanded a new female voice from my left.
I swiveled my head and saw Lori, dressed like a parrot today in shades of bright green, scarlet and turquoise. But her face wasn’t as cheerful as her clothing. She frowned and pointed a long, scarlet fingernail at Harmony. “What’s
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