third week of January. Heavy dark clouds hung in low over
Heraldsgate Hill. Despite the budding camellia bushes and
the green forsythia shoots, Judith sensed that winter was far
from over. She didn’t blame Sweetums for not wanting to
stay outside. Maybe he’d be satisfied visiting Judith’s mother
in the converted toolshed. Gertrude Grover was probably
champing at the bit, awaiting her own breakfast.
Judith went back into the kitchen to prepare her mother’s
morning repast. Then she and the cat trudged down the
walkway to the small apartment. Gertrude opened the door
and offered her daughter a knuckle sandwich.
“You’re late, you moron,” Gertrude snarled. “It’s sevenforty-nine. I’m practically ready to keel over from starvation.”
Her small eyes brightened as Judith uncovered the plastic
tray. “Flapjacks, huh? You got any little pigs?”
“Not today,” Judith replied as Sweetums sniffed around
the legs of Gertrude’s walker. “Bacon, not too crisp, just the
way you like it, swimming in its own grease.”
“Mmm.” Gertrude seemed appeased. “Did you warm the
syrup?”
“Of course.” Judith began setting the breakfast things on
Gertrude’s card table, which was littered with magazines,
jumble puzzles, candy boxes, candy wrappers, and half a
chocolate Santa. Gertrude had already eaten the head and
shoulders, and was obviously working her way through the
little round belly. Though bacon, eggs, and pancakes might
not be the most wholesome of foodstuffs, Judith consoled
herself that at least they weren’t sweets. In recent years,
Gertrude had begun to reject such items as fruit, vegetables,
and almost anything else that was healthy. The problem had
been exacerbated by the holidays. Gertrude had stockpiled
sugary treats given by friends, relatives, and neighbors. If
her mother had had any of her own teeth left, Judith guessed
that they would have fallen out by New Year’s Eve.
Returning to the house, Judith tended to her guests’ latest,
not always reasonable requests, and tried to keep smiling.
She knew she was suffering from the usual post-holiday
doldrums. Traditionally, January was a slow month in the
hostelry business, but this year had proved to be an exception. For the first time since Judith had converted the family
home into a B&B almost eight years earlier, Hillside Manor
was booked through the twenty-first. Following on the heels
of the holiday season with its professional and personal
hustle-and-bustle, Judith could have used a respite. But there
was none, and she was tired, cranky, and drained of her
usual cheerful enthusiasm.
It was eight-thirty by the time the guests had finished
breakfast. Two couples had drifted into the living room to
drink coffee in front of the fireplace, and the others had gone
upstairs to prepare for checkout. Judith dialed Renie’s number, propped the portable phone between her
