A Misty Mourning Read Online Free Page B

decided to go down and at least check on her.
    â€œClarissa?” I asked as quietly as I could without it being a whisper.
    No answer. I should have turned around and gone back to my room, but I couldn’t. I pushed on the already partially open door, and in the dim light of morning I could see Clarissa Hart lying on her throne of pillows, with one of the pillows covering her face.
    It took a second for it to register that the old woman who had to use oxygen was lying with a pillow on her face. In all likelihood she would suffocate if I didn’t do something.
    I rushed into the room and lifted the pillow. “Clarissa?” I said.
    A noise at the window made me turn and look. Some sort of white bird flapped its wings and seemed to look into the room through the window right at me. It then made a chirping sound and flew away.
    When I turned back around, Norville Gross was standing at the doorway looking at me with an astonished expression. He looked at the pillow in my hand and then at Clarissa, who didn’t seem to be breathing. Then ever so slowly he looked back to me.
    This could be very bad.

Four
    â€œ W hat did you do to her?” he asked.
    â€œI didn’t do anything,” I said. “I just came in here and found her with a pillow over her face.”
    â€œWhy’d you come in here in the first place?”
    I hate it when people ask you questions that you can’t answer without making yourself look bad. If I answered him honestly, it would make me look incredibly nosy. Which I was, but I didn’t want to admit it to him. “Her door was open and . . . I heard something,” I said. Which I hadn’t.
    I made a move toward Clarissa to see if she was breathing or if indeed she was as dead as I expected. Norville gave a loud squeal and came partway into the room. “Don’t you touch her,” he said. His morning shadow was so dark that it was nearly blue in color. Maybe it just looked that color because his skin was a rather unbecoming shade of paste.
    â€œFor God’s sake,” I said. “I want to see if she’s breathing. Call 911.”
    â€œI’m not leaving you alone with her.”
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous,” I said, realizing that he wasn’t going to let this go. I checked for her pulse at her wrist and found nothing. Anuneasy feeling settled on me as I set the pillow on the foot of the bed. I looked up at Mr. Gross, whose breathing had become more intense and irregular.
    â€œWell?” he asked.
    I went to her dresser and picked up a hand mirror. Carrying it in my sweaty little palms, I couldn’t help but wonder if Mr. Gross was so upset because Clarissa was dead, or because he thought I’d killed her. I placed the mirror below her nose and mouth, which was absent of any oxygen tube, and there was nothing. She was dead.
    â€œMr. Gross, are you going to stand there all morning, or are you going to dial 911? Clarissa is dead,” I said.
    â€œNo. She can’t be dead,” he answered. He shook his head in disbelief, and then quickly his expression turned perplexed. “Do you smell something?”
    â€œLike what?” I asked and took a deep breath.
    â€œCologne?”
    It was something sweet like a strong air freshener. I nodded my head that I did smell something, but I wasn’t sure what.
    About that time, sixteen-year-old Danette Faragher walked into the room. She wore nothing but one of her tie-dyed T-shirts that came to just above her knees and, I’m assuming, underwear. She had a tattoo of some sort on her ankle. From where I stood, it looked like a rose or some other kind of flower.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” she asked in a sleepy tone of voice.
    â€œDanette,” I said. “Your granny died in her sleep.”
    Mr. Gross was about to dispute what I’d just said, but the daggers that flew out of my eyes and across the room stopped him. Danette’s eyes got real