here anymore less they are,"
When Trevor came out, he looked shocked. "Well?" Mrs. Westington demanded
immediately. She approached the top step.
"There's a man dead in there, all right, and he's
lying beside a giant doll."
"What?" she asked. recoiling. "What kind of a
nonsense story is that?"
"I swear. Mrs, Westington," Trevor said, raising
his hand.
I continued to sob and embrace myself. "My
uncle's a... performer... and... the doll is part of our
act," I explained breathlessly.
"How'd he kick the bucket?" Mrs. Westington
asked Trevor.
"Don't know as I could say. Mrs. Westington.
Must've been pretty sick. Looks to me like he spat up
some blood," he added, looking my way.
"He drank," I mumbled.
"What's that?" she asked,
"My uncle was an alcoholic," I admitted. "Oh. Well. I know a little about that. My
husband drank himself to hell. It ain't no pretty kettle
of fish. Well, don't stand there. It's going to rain cats
and dogs shortly. We'll make the proper phone call.
Leave that vehicle door open. Trevor. Air it out." "Yes. ma'am."
She tapped her cane hard on the portico wood
floor. "Come along. We ain't got all day," she said
turning.
I looked back at Trevor.
"It's best to do what she says," he told me. I
followed Mrs. Westington into her house.