Chapter Twenty-EightVON FRICKEN HOUSE, SHEEPSHEAD BAY, NEW YORK,
later that day
“So, as I was saying”—the woman finally came up for air—“our Freddy certainly was smitten with Clara. And I think you felt the same. Didn’t you, dear?”
Mrs. Von Fricken was a medium-sized woman with medium brown hair and medium brown eyes. There appeared to be nothing remarkable about her at all, except her capacity for talking. She talked a lot.
Her parlor was comfortable but shabby, with a floral couch, gold armchairs with antimacassars cleverly disguising the threadbare patches, and several framed biblical verses—one a print and the other a cross-stitch.
“We were eight, but yeah. He was the cat’s whiskers, all right.” Clara set her teacup back in its saucer.
“Clara and her parents didn’t live here long
