CHAPTER 4The next morning when Lilac brought my breakfast tray she put it down without a word, not even the sort of grunt that usually means that Shiela, my Irish setter, has been sick on the hall rug. She rattled up the Venetian, blind behind my dressing table, banged down the window and demanded darkly, “What’s they done to that chile?”
I shook my head. Lilac can’t fool me. She knows more about everything that goes on than I do, and long before. I poured a cup of coffee and took a sip of orange juice.
“She done cry herself to sleep in there all by herself, las’ night.”
She picked up my shoes and jammed them in the rack.
“Oh dear!” I thought. I’d somehow got the sentimental notion that Jerry would go to sleep happier than she’d been for ages.
“Mus’ is that devil Karen Lunt,” Lilac sa
