Beatrice stood still, shaking. From the blonde hair she saw, she thought it must be Aspen, the abrasive quilter from the day before.
As she stood there, trying to think what to do next, the door opened behind her. Beatrice spun around to see a thin woman with dark hair. She remembered her name was Olive.
The woman frowned at her. “Beatrice, isn’t it? What’s going on?”
Beatrice pointed a shaking hair at the floor. “It’s Aspen, I think. She’s dead.”
Olive’s frown deepened, and she stared at Beatrice as if she’d just said something very distasteful. “Of course she’s not,” she snapped. “I saw her just a few hours ago.”
Olive strode up next to Beatrice and gasped when she looked at the floor. She made to step forward and Beatrice grabbed her arm. “We should leave it alone. The police will
