I leaned up on an elbow. “Where have you been?” Her eyes danced with excitement, her smile as mischievous as a North Pole elf who just short-sheeted Santa’s bed. “I have something to report,” she said with grand formality. “… Report?” Her eyes flared, and with the magnification of those lenses, it made two small conflagrations. “We now have several suspects in the Clint Carson murder case.” “… Murder case?” Mother frowned but there was a smile in it, her eyes narrow now behind the thickness of glass, her hands waving like Al Jolson singing (what else?) “Mammy.” “Oh my, my dear, it’s a murder, all right.” The frown had held on for a whole four seconds, and the delighted child’s smile took its rightful place on her cheerfully demented mug. “Would you like to hear my story?” “Do I have a choice?” I did not. And neither do you: what follows is Mother’s story. She has written the following section herself, as she doesn’t trust my memory or my ability not to interrupt her tale with sarcasm.
