12
CHANDELLE CHOKED ON a piece of broccoli, and Luella pushed a water glass closer to the poor girl’s hand. The woman who’d served them rushed out of the kitchen, summoned by the sound of a coughing fit, but Luella waved her away. “We’re fine. Broccoli went down the wrong way.”
The old woman in the corner sat like a statue, staring at the ornate carving on the far wall.
“You think Grandma Larkin was murdered?” Chandelle asked, after downing enough water to sink a small ship. “Why? Why would you think that?”
“Petechial hemorrhaging,” Luella replied, sitting up straight.
“Petechial hemorrhaging,” Chandelle said, hoarse, but ruminating. “Why does that sound so familiar?”
“Oh, they talk about it on all those crime shows. Little red spots that show up on people’s eyes after they’ve
