Meg brought hot stew from the kitchen. Andy Bishop poured hot cider. One by one the ornaments went on the tree; the flying unicorn that Meg had given her years before, the bubbling lights from Marge and Betty, the beaded angel for the top of the tree from John's grandmother.

The sky grew dark. Snow began to fall, tapping against the windows like the tips of feathered wings.

John's quick ears heard it first, the roar of the Jeep as it came up the drive to the front door of the Inn. He switched the tree lights on, and it glowed in the window, a galaxy of stars, to welcome Myles home.

The End

Вы читаете Murder Well-Done
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