Bessie cuddles her kitten in the kitchen, watching her dad make pancakes on the stove. Her mother’s busy tidying up bundles of material swatches cut into pocket sizes; they’re to be sewn on the tool belts this afternoon by the sewers she’s recruited.
“Where’s Leila? She’s usually up by this time,” Art says, flipping pancakes onto a plate.
“She’ll be down soon. Probably reading one of those blood-curdling mysteries of hers.” Heather carries her load into the living room. Passing the stairs, she yells up, “Leila, breakfast! You’ll be late for school.”
The dog comes down but not Lee.
“Hmm, where’s your mistress, Miss Marple? Head stuck in a book?” Heather goes back into the kitchen to pick up another pile of material. “Bess, would you please check on Lee? She’s still up there.”
“Sure, Mo
