My cell phone buzzes against my leg, stirring me from a nice dead sleep on the couch.
I drag my fingers along the cushions until I finally get hold of the offending device. Once it’s to my ear, I manage a sleepy, “Hello?”
“Jane, did you hear anything last night?”
“Who is this?”
“Susan Smythe. Did you hear anything?”
“Uh…what time is it?”
“It’s a quarter past noon. Last night or early this morning, did you see or hear anything odd?”
“At the hotel, you mean?” Besides the runaway scooter at the retirement home, it’s been a peaceful Monday—one I meant to sleep away. I have the IQ of a slug at the moment, so I can’t quite register what Susan’s asking me.
“Yes, here at the Roche! Did you witness anything odd?” Her voice has taken on a shrill note that cuts through my stupor.
“No, why?” Surely not another dead body. What am I—the grim reaper?
“Miss Lafarge,” Susan says, lowering her voice to a loud whisper, “you know, the plus-sized lady? She ran out of here at 7:30 this morning, saying something woke her up.”