What people are saying about
The Rosary Bride: A
Cloistered Death
"…a stylishly written novel evocative of Barbara Michaels and Teri
Holbrook. Luisa Buehler presents a fascinating cast of
characters, an engrossing tale of old wrongs, long-kept secrets, and
murder."
–Denise Swanson, author of the bestselling
"…a twisty, taut, compelling story of love gone wrong, a
fascinating, haunting tale."
–Carolyn Hart, author of Engaged to Die
"My favorite kind of
book–old sins cast long shadows. When a long-dead
woman is found behind the fireplace at
–Barbara D'Amato, author of the Cat Marsala series
"A taut and suspenseful whodunit laced with a healthy dose of the
supernatural."
–Lee Driver, author of the White Male Infant
The Lion Tamer: A Caged Death
"With her second book, The Lion Tamer, Luisa Buehler offers
us a curious heroine, a handsome husband, a dashing ex-lover and a skeleton or
two. Welcome to the engaging Grace Marsden's
world, where romance and mayhem vie for her attention–much to a reader's
satisfaction and delight!"
–Sharon Fiffer, author of The Jane Wheel Mysteries
Luisa Buehler
This is a work of
fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents are products of the author's imagination or are
used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Echelon Press
9735 Country
Copyright © 2004 by
Luisa Buehler
ISBN: 1-59080-172-5
www.echelonpress.com
All rights
reserved. No part of this book may be
used or reproduced in any m
First Echelon Press
paperback printing: October 2004
Cover Art ©
Nathalie Moore
Enigma and all its
logos are trademarks of Echelon Press.
Printed in
Dedication
To
the docents at Brookfield Zoo, whose mission to guide visitors to education
through experience makes them pioneers on life’s journey to harmony with nature.
My thanks to Kurt Hill for his help and expertise with diamonds, to my
reading group, Kay Payne, Gary Ritter, and Lee Williams, for their honest and
constant critique, and to Gerry Buehler and Christopher Buehler for their
steady encouragement.
The message on my answering machine
played simply enough. Nine single
syllables that conveyed a volume of possibilities. I replayed the entreaty three times,
"Grace, I need your help. Call me
at home." Normally a call from Karen
Kramer, my best friend, didn't send me into a state of confused
hopefulness. Karen and I had met at
So with that said, why were my fingers fumbling with
the replay button? Karen and I hadn't
spoken to each other in three months. My
mind raced from one plausible possibility to the next, in the few seconds it took
Ameritech to spin their fiber optics and connect my call. It rang, once, twice. Maybe she wasn't home. As fast as my mind ran down the
possibilities, my fingers flew over a length of yellow yarn tied to the
telephone cord. I am obsessive-compulsive
about some things. When I'm nervous I
calm my jitters by braiding. Phone calls
can bring unsettling news, ergo the braid on the cord. I twisted two previous cords into grotesque
uselessness before I added the yarn.
Three rings. My underarms tingled
with the sudden release of sweat.
"You have reached 555…" Thank God, I
thought. Her machine picked up. I took a deep breath to calm my voice as the
message continued and waited for the beep.
"Karen, this is…"
"Grace, don't hang up. I'm here."
"Hello," was my tentative approach. I wasn't feeling brilliant.
"Thanks for calling back. I mean, I wasn't sure if you would."
"Sure I would.
I'm surprised to hear from you…but happy."
A soft chuckle greeted my response.
"How are you?" I wondered if Karen heard the caution in my
voice.
"It's still hard, without them, you know. I'm getting better. I've wanted to call you for awhile now, but I
wasn't sure what to say." Her pause
was so long; I felt I should say something soothing or conciliatory. Karen's voice filled the line before I could
speak.
"Anyway, H
This time I didn't wait for the pause. "I'm glad you did. I've missed you."
"Will you meet me at Braxton's?" Karen asked.
"I want to see you."
"You bet.
Name the time." I beamed at
the receiver in my hand. We agreed on a
time and I reminded Karen to exit south on Route 83 to get to the Oak Brook
restaurant. She was lousy with
directions.
"Thanks, Grace. We can catch up and I can tell you why I need your help."
"My help?"
I had forgotten the message.
"Oh yeah," she answered. "This is right up your alley. A skeleton surfaced at
A skeleton in
Iroquois Lake…too bizarre, I thought as I rushed up
the spiral iron stairs leading from the kitchen to the second floor of our
home. I figuratively pat myself on the
back every time I dash up those service stairs and save the fifty odd steps it
takes to reach the oak staircase between the living room and dining room.
Our semi-wooded lot includes a twelve room house, a
three car garage, carriage house, and small stable set out on three acres out
of over one hundred acres of reclaimed swampland about twenty-five miles west
of Chicago. My husband and I share this
development with five other families and Broken
Feather, a Pete Dye golf course. I love the
solitude and space.
I grew up in
Now, I could choose from one of three bathrooms. I usually
choose the one in the master bedroom.
Harry's toiletries are Spartan compared to mine, so I use all of my
space and most of his; an allocation that works in our
walk-in closet as well. Men don't seem
to require as much space. At least my
man doesn't; a fact, which deepens my esteem for him each time I need an extra
shelf.
A quick glance in the mirror assured me I needed
more than a quick glance. Mascara
smudged the tops of my not so high cheekbones.
Pretty Eyes advertised that swimming wouldn't smear their product. It didn't say anything about crying. Maybe tears are more potent than
chlorine. Maybe if I'd paid attention to
Sister Bernard in remedial Chemistry, I'd know the answer.
My fingers dipped and blended across my face making
the necessary repairs. Lavender eyes,
flecked with gold, now filled with tears again as I thought of how much I had
missed Karen in my life. "Oh, stop
it," I scolded myself. "You'll
never get out of the bathroom at this rate." I blew my nose and reassessed my image.
I wear my hair one length cut at my shoulders for
one reason. I'm lousy with hair. My parents' Irish-Italian gene pool designed
thick sable brown hair. Unruly waves
framed a fair complexion into which their genetic coupling had placed lavender
eyes that turn pansy-purple during mood swings.
Hair was the problem today. I
bent over from the waist and brushed my hair vigorously, then straightened
up. When the blood settled and my vision
cleared, I looked like Simba in The Lion
King pushing his head through a bush.
I reached for a green woolen cap with a brown suede bill. With the cap on, I could push my hair behind
my ears and have half a chance it would stay put.
The finished image was a lot of green and someone
who looked ready to go walking over the moors.
I lacked only a walking stick and sensible shoes. "Check, check, and done," I
pronounced as I flipped off the light switch.
I penned a quick note to Harry, jammed a piece of purple yarn in my
pocket, and turned my thoughts to a skeleton in
Karen and I claimed Oak Brook as our meeting place
since the exclusive suburb sits half way between Pine Marsh and
I ordered a vodka and tonic and waited nervously,
looking up each time the door opened.
Lunch crowds already a memory, most of the wait staff looked longingly
at the doors. Their raised heads met
Karen's level gaze as she entered. I
waved my hand to direct her. Dumb move;
there were no other customers in the bar.
I was nervous.
A smile spread across her face and jumped to her
soft brown eyes. She looked a little
thin, but at 5'10", she was always slim.
Karen still looked much as she did in college. Her dark blonde curly hair framed an impish
face. Tortoise shell glasses saved her
from looking like Doris Day. She ordered
a Tanqurey and tonic from a loitering waiter and sat
down.
"Grace, thanks for
coming," Karen greeted me.
"I've been awful about this whole thing."
"Karen, don't," I interrupted. "You weren't yourself. Let's forget it."
"Forget it, after what I said to you? It wasn't your fault. You were almost killed. Forget it?" Karen's usually clear voice clouded with
emotion.
"I know neither one of us can forget what
happened. Let's get past it. I'm glad we're back." I reached across the table to squeeze her
hand. My jacket cuff pulled back when I
stretched my hand, exposing three tiny scars on the inside of my wrist. I regretted the movement, but it was too
late. Her eyes stared at my wrist then
looked at my face for confirmation.
"Did I do that?" she asked softly.
"It doesn't matter. I hurt more inside when you weren't
around. Trust me, it doesn't
matter."
She touched the scars gently and believed me. I could tell she did by her posture, as
though a weight had eased from her. I
ordered another round of drinks and then zeroed in on Karen.
"Now give.
What's all this about a skeleton?"
"I knew you couldn't resist." Karen smirked. "Dee Sanders called me last night. We're on the board at the zoo. Her particular committee is working on
fundraising for the new wetland exhibit.
"As part of the shtick several
community leaders with connections, captains of industry with deep pockets, and
media crews with rolling cameras, were invited to a ceremony at the lake. Earlier in the week, divers with the Army
Corps of Engineers discovered an old circus wagon buried in marsh up to its
crown. Someone in Public Relations
thought it would be great publicity to film the recovery of the wagon as a
special interest event." Karen
paused to quench her thirst.
"Were they able to raise it?"
I prodded.
"Oh, they raised it all right. PR thought it went without a hitch."
"I haven't heard anything about this on the
news."
"That's because no one discovered anything
unusual until after the press left and the maintenance department started
cleaning off the wagon. That's when they
found it."
"It? I had been expecting him or her."
"It was a he, but he was an African Lion," she said with a flourish.
"An African Lion? That's crazy.
How did it get there? How long
has it been there? Didn't anyone notice
they were missing a lion?"
"Wait, it gets better," Karen said. She leaned forward and lowered her
voice. "They found the bones of a
man's hand tangled in the lion's ribcage."
My eyes must have gleamed purple, my personal
indicator of excitement or fear. Karen
continued. "But that's not the best
part. The wagon had a false bottom and
when they managed to open that they found…" Karen paused to draw out the moment.
"What?
They found what?"
"The rest of the guy that belonged to the
hand," she finished with a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile.
"The rest of the guy. What do you mean the rest of the guy?"
"Just that.
They found a skeleton in the bottom of the cage. Apparently the chemical make-up of a marsh,
plus the fact that the wagon was stuck in the mire closer to the shore and not
further out in the marsh, kept most of the bones in the wagon."
"Do they know anything yet about whom he was or
what happened?"
"Nope, not a clue. They've shipped everything to the Illinois
State Police forensics lab."
"How is the zoo handling the story?" I asked.
"Right now there is no answer. The docents have been told to say they don't
know, that they weren't there, which is true.
No one knows." Karen
motioned for the next round and continued.
"Dr. Barr, the director of the zoo, has been careful not to
disclose too much or form any opinions until after the tests and reports are
completed. That was the word we received
at the emergency board meeting last night."
"The zoo will get their fifteen minutes of fame
when the media gets wind of this."
We both sat silent after my comment.
I think we both remembered the media blitz surrounding Karen's family
and the solving of a fifty-year-old murder at
"What mystery shrouds this murder?" I wondered aloud.
"Murder, who said anything about
murder?" Karen's voice was
plaintive.
"What, who, I mean who said…?"
"You did, just now. You were sitting there with that look on your
face and you said murder."
"What look?
Karen you're a pain sometimes," I teased.
"What look?" she mimicked. "The look you get when you visit that
part of your brain that always causes trouble."
"It doesn't take an astral physicist to figure
out there was foul play. How's a guy going to get his hand chewed off
by a lion, end up hidden in the bottom of a cage, and the entire cage end up in
a marsh?"
"Astral?
Where did you get your degree…from Woolworths?"
We laughed over my simple synopsis and even simpler
grasp of physics. It felt so right to be
laughing with Karen and sharing my zany thoughts with her. A dull ache in my heart had
been replaced with a warm fuzzy.
The third vodka tonic hadn't hurt either. Our reconciliation gave me the sensation of
soaring. For one tiny instant, I
remembered the story of Icarus flying too close to
the sun. I shrugged off the
analogy. After all, his wings were made
of wax. I was soaring on wings of
friendship. I hate it when I don't
expect the crash.
Karen's eyes widened in surprise at something behind
my left shoulder. Her gesture gave me a
split second of warning before I heard his voice.
"I must say, I'm surprised and happy to see the
two of you together again and smiling about it." Karen's incredibly handsome brother, Ric
Kramer, smiled down at us from his imposing six-foot, four-inch height. His dark brown hair and even darker eyes set
off the camel hued corduroy jacket and cream-colored polo shirt to
perfection. I guess I'd never stop
marveling at how his appearance (literally and figuratively) caused definite
physiological changes in me. Case in
point, my palms moistened and my neck and cheeks flushed.
"Can anyone join this party?"
Came the query and the dazzling smile.
"Ah, sure," Karen said, glancing up at me
through a fringe of curly bangs.
"Just don't monopolize the conversation," she warned.
"Thought never entered my mind." The waiter appeared at Ric's side. "I'll have a bourbon and water. Ladies?"
He paused to let us order. I
changed my order to coffee. Karen
ordered hot tea.
"Ah ha. I see H
"Ric, has Karen filled you in on the skeleton
at the zoo?" Karen's eyes rolled up
and Ric fastened his gaze on her.
"No, she hasn't. Do tell, sister dear." We were all smiling again. Karen filled him in with a condensed version
and we were all laughing at the end of her description of my pronouncement of foul play.
"This is one investigation I'm glad has
absolutely no connection whatsoever to my department." Ric smiled.
He was a police inspector, not an anthropologist.
"Wouldn't it be fascinating to find out the
circumstances of this case? I mean who
was he? How did his hand get into the
lion and the rest of him elsewhere? When
did it happen?" I asked.
"Whoa, Grace.
There's no case and it would not be fascinating. Have you already forgotten the last skeleton…" Ric's voice
slowed and stopped. None of us had forgotten.
The waiter sidled up to the table to refill my cup and bring Karen a new tea bag. His arrival effectively stopped further conversation. We all sipped at our drinks. My mind raced trying to think of a tactful way to leave. Deliverance came from across the room in the form of a gorgeous, willowy redhead waving to Ric. Her copper tresses swirled around her face with each increasingly broader wave. Her entire body seemed intent on signaling her presence.
"A new friend, Ric?" was Karen's coy
question. "You'd better get over
there before she knocks something over or sprains something," she added
with a smirk.
"If you'll excuse me." Ric stood.
His movement stopped the waving.
"It's good to see you again, Grace." His eyes held mine for a second too
long. I felt the traitorous warmth creep
up my neck and settle itself defiantly on my cheeks.
"It is warm in here, isn't it?" A corner of his mouth lifted.
Karen and I said good-bye and promised to talk again
soon. I asked her to keep me up-to-date
on the skeleton. My niece and godchild,
Jolene Grant, was a docent at the zoo.
Jolene was the only child of my eldest brother, Joseph, a priest in
He had dated a theology major all through college
named Darlene Grant. The family expected
wedding bells, but after graduation, Joseph chose the seminary instead of
matrimony. Darlene never told him she
was pregnant before she moved back home.
Ten years later, Joseph received a letter informing him of his
fatherhood. Darlene had never married
and was dying from cancer. She wanted
Joseph to know he had a daughter.
The entire Morelli family descended on the small
When college loomed on the horizon, we campaigned
for a
I wondered what she had heard through the
grapevine. Jolene had kept the family
informed with some inside info a year ago when one of the gorillas gained fame
by rescuing a toddler who had fallen into the exhibit. We knew more than the general
public. One of the unadvertised
perks of volunteerism. I dialed her
number, heard her machine pick up, then said, "Hi, sweetie. It's Aunt Grace. I heard a bizarre story about happenings at
the zoo. I'm being nosy. Please call.
Bye."
The turnoff to Pine Marsh was fifty yards
ahead. The only automobile entrance to
the complex sp
"Darling, over here." I turned toward Harry's voice. He was where I expected him to be in his
spare time, the garden. I walked toward
him, my eyes absorbing the pleasant picture of my English husband standing
amongst his flowers. He stood with his
hands on his hips, one hand holding his heavy rubber gloves and pruning shears,
the other clasping his garden fedora.
Harry's blond hair reflected streaks of platinum
from a recent vacation spent sailing and water skiing. His cornflower blue eyes sparkled as he watched
my approach. A spreading smile filled
his handsome face and I felt a catch in my throat as I reached his side. He kept his hands on his hips and leaned
forward slightly to kiss me. I stepped
into the kiss and slipped my arms around his neck.
"Mmm,"
I murmured as our lips parted. I could
smell sweat, earth, and peat moss as I lingered close to his body.
"Watch it, love. I'm all dirty," he cautioned as he
stepped back from me. "I've been at
this for the better part of the afternoon.
I saw your note. Must have just
missed you. How did it go?"
His voice was cautious with a hint of concern. Harry more than anyone knew how awful I felt
about losing Karen's friendship.
"Great.
It went great. Let me get us some
iced tea and I'll fill you in."
"I like the way you think, but you'll have to
forego the tea. I drained the last drop
an hour ago. This is thirsty work. I did have the good sense to put some wine to
chill." His smile beamed at his
domesticity. "Oh, and I bought some
of the crusty sourdough bread you like."
"It
sounds to me like we're on our way to a cheese and wine interlude. I remember seeing a quarter wheel of Brie and
a small chunk of
"I need to collect my tools and such, but I'll
be in shortly."
Actually, it would take Harry longer than shortly to put up all of his gardening
paraphernalia. He was meticulous about
cleaning up and returning each item to the proper hook in the garden shed. On the rare occasion when I gardened, I
gathered up everything in the wheelbarrow with the intention of hanging it
up. All those pegs were intimidating. Worse than not putting them up on the wall,
was putting them all back in the wrong places.
I knew Harry would be cleaning and sorting and hanging tools for a
while. I reasoned I had enough time to
look through the mail. The stack was
small, but held two interesting looking envelopes.
One envelope had swirls of black in a zebra pattern
on the bottom front and back flap. The
zebra theme carried on with the panel invitation enclosed. The
I heard Harry call from the back stairs. "Darling, we still have some of the dill
chicken left in the fridge. Put that
out, too. Oh, and get those fancy Greek
olives H
His last comment was to remind me which herbs
planted in a huge stone sarcophagus outside the kitchen door to use. The structure was unearthed in the graveyard
of one of the many country churches dotting the English countryside. H
The reason for the reminder was that Harry was
writing a book on poisonous plants that mimic benign ones. He used the sarcophagus to plant his poison and
non-poison plants close enough to study and photograph but far enough apart to
avoid misuse. He thought using the stone
coffin was appropriate in some macabre way.
I had encouraged him to start writing about his passion, gardening. I didn't realize he had such interest in the dark side of flora.
Our wine and cheese snack blossomed into a light
buffet; Harry's favorite food style. He was the consummate snacker. He could survive on cheese, olives, caviar,
and tins of crackers. He never gained an
ounce of fat, but he never ate a balanced meal.
Our early years of dinners together had been disastrous. I would cook as my mother had, for lots of
hungry men, four brothers, and dad.
Harry picked and pushed at all my meat
and potatoes meals before I caught on.
I began to concoct unusual salads filled with hearts of palm, pickled
baby corn, bits of fruit and cheese and pared the meat down to a tidbit. My new style of cooking was an instant
success with Harry. My parents and
brothers thought I was starving him, but each sister-in-law grew envious of our
picnic style dinners. Harry adores
leftovers. He claims chicken and pasta
and some salads aren't tasty till the second go-around. The Morelli men, on the other hand, abhor
leftovers.
The joke in our family, when I was growing up was if
one of my brothers worked late and had to have his dinner re-heated, he was
eating leftovers. I thought one of my
marriage vows pertained to keeping my mate well nourished. I was prepared to follow my mom's example:
love, honor, and overfeed.
"Mmm,
looks wonderful. I'm famished," he
said as he snatched an olive. Harry
picked up the invitation. "This is
that event Karen is always going on about, isn't it? Looks like fun. Are we going?"
"We have the date open. I'd like to go. Especially since I'm sure the main topic will
be the skeleton the zoo raised from
"Really?
Do tell." He smiled
conspiratorially as he poured two glasses of what Harry calls an especially pouty
Riesling and motioned me over to the window seat. Food forgotten momentarily,
I chatted easily about my conversation with Karen. Instinct told me to avoid any mention of Ric
Kramer. I hoped that omission wouldn't
backfire on me.
I was cleaning up in the kitchen when I remembered
the other interesting envelope in the mail.
I retrieved the rose colored packet from the
counter and opened the length of the heavy stock paper. There was something familiar about the
stationery, but I couldn't place it. I
read the first few lines. My fingers
turned numb and the pages slipped from my hands to the floor. I felt weak.
My full weight sagged against the counter and I took several deep
breaths. "Harry," I called.
He was on his way back into the kitchen when he
heard the quiet summons. His step
quickened as he saw my condition.
"Grace, what is it? What's
wrong?" His eyes searched my face
for an answer. I pointed to the floor,
at the scattered pages. "What is
it?" he repeated.
"She wrote to me…from Hell." I scarcely breathed as I answered. I would have slumped to the tile if not for
Harry's quick response and strong arms.
He guided me into the living room and settled me on the love seat
nearest the fireplace. He had started a
fire while I had cleared our dinner things.
It blazed steadily now casting a soft glow and warmth from its interior.
He put a gentle hand on my shoulder. "You rest here. I'll make us some tea. I'll be back in two shakes." Tea was Harry's answer to most situations,
problems, calamities, etc. Moreover, it
would take only two shakes. His pride and joy was a chrome electric
kettle that heated the water to scalding in no time. I heard him gathering the tea things and
within seconds, the kettle whistled its early warning.
The whistle is louder,
angry, demanding. Why doesn't Harry turn off the kettle? It's not a whistle; it's a howl. A human screech, louder, fierce; the horrible
sound fills my head. I clap my hands to
my ears to block the screaming.
"Here we are, two
shakes. Darling, what's
wrong?" Harry quickly set down the
tray causing the china to clink and rattle.
He knelt beside me and gently pulled my hands from my ears. "Gracie, look at me," he
murmured. The wraith-like sound
ceased. Harry's soothing voice and
gentle touch had broken its hold.
"It's all right," he said while stroking the side of my face
with his fingers.
"It was horrible," I stammered. "It was her, screaming at me from Hell." Harry moved up to sit next to me. He put his arms around me as I fought a
shiver.
"Shh,
Gracie. Shh." He tightened his
arms around me and guided my head against his chest. "You've had a nasty shock, Darling. There's nothing here." He freed one of his arms and reached over to
pour a cup of tea. The strong cinnamon
scent reached my nostrils as soon as the hot liquid flowed from the spout. It was one of my favorite tea flavors. I straightened up on the couch as Harry
carefully passed the cup and saucer to me.
I leaned back against Harry's arm.
It felt reassuring.
"There now.
Have your tea and you'll start up right as rain." The concern in his face gave way to a smile.
"Thank you." I lifted my cup from the saucer in a tiny
salute to him. Between my husband's English penchant for prescribing hot tea for any
emergency and his equally English colloquialisms, I felt I would soon start up as right as rain. I sipped my tea, savoring the spicy
taste. My mind forced itself back to the
letter that had shattered the happy event of my reunion with Karen. The timing of receiving a letter from Sheila
Walsh on the same day I reconciled with her niece was eerie. If was as if an occult hand had held the
letter until my reconciliation with Karen could give me the strength to handle
it.
I placed my teacup on the table and pulled a length
of blue yarn from my pocket to start an intricate weave. My thoughts wandered back five months to the
events responsible for the rift between Karen and me. Our lives had taken a collision course the
day a skeleton was discovered in the walls of the old
fireplace at
The tortured lengths people would go to in order to
hide the truth became fatally apparent the night I followed a hunch and entered
the tunnels beneath
At the funeral she received Harry's words of
condolence with a weak smile, but when I leaned closer to speak to her, she
grabbed my wrist with one hand and waved her other hand toward the ground. Her finger outstretched and pointed
downwards, she whispered in a hoarse voice, "You did this. You put them there and I'll never forgive
you." Her fingers cinched my wrist
like a vise. I could feel her nails
piercing the soft skin.
Harry had walked away to give us some privacy. He never saw or heard the exchange. Minutes seemed to pass; it was only
seconds. My voice caught in my throat at
the wild hatred in her eyes. Then, H
That was the last conversation I had with my best
friend, until today when we were able to put that shocking and tragic time
behind us. Both Harry and his sister had
told me that in time Karen would accept the truth and understand that what had
happened had been inevitable.
Unfortunately, I was the one who'd stumbled onto the key to the
murders. It was easy to blame me. Karen was a strong person with a genuine
respect for the truth and I had been hoping Harry and H
A shift in weight on the couch made me realize
Harry had positioned himself closer to the reading lamp. His hand held the two sheets. I shivered looking at them. I picked up the cup and saucer and took a
bigger sip of tea. My hair slipped
forward across the sides of my face. I
stopped my hand from the automatic response of pushing the errant strands back
behind my ears. It seemed silly, but I
felt more protected with my heavy hair screening my face from the words to
come. I focused my eyes on the teacup in
front of me. Tiny sprigs of violets on a
cream background decorated the dainty cup.
The set had belonged to my Aunt Cecilia.
One of the nuns at
"Go ahead," I said. Harry had been waiting for my signal. He started speaking; his familiar voice comforted though I knew his words would not.