The next morning, when Bessie wakes up, all the typed messages have disappeared; something she has come to expect. A scratching at the door gets her out of bed to let in a wiggling Miss Marple. She dresses in jeans and her favorite yellow sweater on which she carefully pins the 4-leaf clover brooch before heading downstairs and into the kitchen for breakfast.
“Morning, sleepyhead.” Art’s voice is unusually cheerful on this crisp Saturday, perhaps due to the fact his elder daughter seems to be getting involved in life again.
Heather, in a pink fluffy robe, stirs scrambled eggs at the stove. She turns to smile. Leila dips her spoon into her bowl of cinnamon cereal without looking up while absorbed in the latest bloodcurdling mystery by Arabelle Smythe.
“Morning.” Bessie takes her seat. “W
