MYRTLE STEPPED OUT of Miles’s car, straightening her black and white blouse and wincing at the scratchiness of the material. She stared at her pants, suddenly realizing there appeared to be cat hair on them. How on earth did black cat fur even show up on black pants? She wasn’t sure, but it was certainly there. The curse of the funeral garments continued. She gritted her teeth into a smile and said, “Claudia. How are you?”
“Ready to help out this poor, bereaved lamb,” bellowed Claudia. “Myrtle, good to see you. Have you got the keys to this castle?”
It was indeed a very large house. Myrtle remembered it belonging to an ostentatious mill owner when she was a mere wisp of a girl. She had been to various functions at this home when it belonged to previous owners. As she recalled, each event
