CHAPTER 13It was nine-thirty, though, before Don parked his Buick in the maple-shaded driveway of Edith Forde’s white-clapboard cottage in Forest Hills; by then he had come to a disturbing conclusion. Now he was going to have to break the news of Timmy’s note.
All the time he had been packing a suitcase—with Rina in his bed, her whimpers subsiding under the apathy induced by a hypodermic; with Mitzi chattering a machine-gun salvo of questions about room service, valet service, and the shops near the Vauclair; and Soames on the phone trying to locate a night nurse—Don had tried to make sense of Sibyl’s talk with Timmy.
The call must have been simply another gypsy attempt to stall…otherwise the boy would have been on his way home the moment he was free. If Sibyl had known about the note, s
