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that I knew had to be laced through the hill under the old house. As a last resort, we kicked aside the debris in the makeshift pantry and inspected it. All to no avail. In the end, B.C. stood in the middle of the tiny room with a look of ''what's next?'' on her troubled face. |
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I went back into the sitting room and stared at the shrouded figure of Glenna Austin. "Damn it, B.C., I'd have bet my last dime we would have found a trap door somewhere in all this mess. Nothing else makes sense. There has to be one." |
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"If this whole thing was being directed by Alfred Hitchcock, he'd have the old lady's rocking chair sitting on it," B.C. sighed, "or something like that." |
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A little light came on. The night I barged into Glenna's happy home only to find the crusty old girl waving a shotgun under my flaring nostrils, the rocking chair had been on the opposite side of the room. I had felt something was different about the room, and now I realized what it was. Why would the old girl move her rocker? After all, it was fairly obvious Glenna Austin wasn't a member of the homemaker of the month club. |
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There was only one way to find out. |
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"Help me move her," I snapped. |
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"What on earth for?" Brenda protested. |
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"Because that rocking chair sitting on top |
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