Steps creak and strange knocking sounds float to my apartment from the basement, and the cat refuses to go downstairs after dark. You can’t blame him, given what happened here.
Tag: Jean Wolfersteig
Rosalie took one look at the tarot cards this morning and gazed up at me. “Molly,” she said, “I need to get away from you.” Then she bolted down Psychic Alley.
I suppose I should’ve listened to my Gramoon when she scolded me with her old sayings.
Time marches on! What a ridiculous cliché. If I had a minute for every time I’ve heard it, I’d . . . well, don’t get me started.
We huddled around the card table last night, scheming about dusting outta this joint during the morning bus trip.
As usual, Deadman has left me a car at the airport, and, for the first time since Irma hit, I bump along the rutted streets of Road Town.
This morning, the front page of the East Hampton Star headlined the robbery and spectacular murder of a local resident in her home. Strangled with fishing line . . .