“Save me,” the voice on the phone whispered. I jerked the instrument underneath the down comforter. Perfect temperature control was shattered, causing me to growl at my caller. “Go away.” “You’re my last chance.” It was a harsh, old voice, as ratchety as a Las Vegas Wheel of Fortune. I laughed in derision. “Tough luck.” It was cruel perhaps, but not without justification. I’d been burned by this voice before. “I won’t be held responsible for what I do!” There was, I noted with satisfaction, a hint of panic. “You know you’ll pay if you try anything rash,” I cautioned. “I wouldn’t mess with her if I were you.” “But I can’t take it anymore.” “She’s your sister, Gramma.” I glanced at the clock-radio on the nightstand next to my bed—seven A.M.—and on a day I didn’t need to be at the Folk Art Museum until ten o‘clock. We’d been officially closed for the last week as we set up our new exhibit, a collection of antique quilts owned by residents of San Celina County.
