Never Say Dye (A Sibyl Potts Cozy Mystery, Book 3) Read Online Free PDF

there are ghosts here? There are no such things as ghosts! Do you think I wanted James here?”
    “I didn’t think.”
    “No, you never think!” Dorothy whacked Frank’s arm again with the wooden spoon. With that, she threw up her arms and turned to face the direction of the boarding house. She hurried forward, leaving her adult son to bound after her.
    Mr. Buttons and I looked at one another. “What’s that about?” I whispered. “She and Frank seem to know James.”
    Mr. Buttons scratched his head. “Dorothy hasn’t let on that she knows James, and James certainly didn’t let on that he knew Dorothy. How strange.”
    “What’s going on?” I asked.
    Mr. Buttons simply shrugged.
    “I wish we could find out.”
    “I’ll keep an ear open. Perhaps you should come to dinner this evening.”
    I nodded. “Thanks, I will.”
    Mr. Buttons and I parted company, and I returned to my cottage. I had only been sitting in the cottage for a short time, listening to my cockatoo insult me for a few minutes, when I pulled my shoes back on and went outside.
    I didn’t know exactly where I was going, but I walked along the path toward the boarding house. When I reached the boarding house, I kept walking, and then made my way down the side of the building and into the back yard. Past that was the bushland, and I strolled this way and that as I wound through the eucalyptus trees, stepping over small, fallen branches.
    I often walked this way with Mr. Buttons, of a morning on the days when we both walked Sandy. I sat on a fallen branch that was set close to a stream of water, and listened to Pobblebonk frogs croaking. One large such frog was sitting on the edge of the water, and I watched it for a while, as it, in turn, appeared to watch me with its bulging, yellow-rimmed eyes. The air was still, and the frogs were the only sounds I heard, apart from the occasional screeching of the yellow-tailed, black cockatoos, an eerie, high-pitched sound that always, for some reason, chilled my blood.
    I thought about Cressida. She was always so full of life, so loud. She wore too much make up, and dressed like a theatrical teenager instead of a woman in her fifties. I looked out at the creek, but my vision blurred and my eyes stung, as salty, warm tears welled up.
    I stayed on the tree branch until I was sure I would not cry again. I had to go back past the boarding house, and I did not want anyone to see me. Finally, after half an hour or so, I stood and turned. My heart leaped into my throat when I saw Dorothy walking my way. She, in turn, seemed just as alarmed to see me. Her head snapped up and she shoved her hand into her coat pocket, but not before I saw that she was holding something.
    “Oh, didn’t know anyone was out here,” Dorothy said, her tone snappy.
    “I come out here sometimes,” I said.
    Dorothy simply nodded and hurried past me. I shrugged and walked past the woman, heading toward the bushland that led back to the boarding house. When I was in the trees, I looked back.
    Dorothy was still there, and I saw her pull something from her pocket and throw it in the creek.
     
     
     

“The very idea of a bird is a symbol and a suggestion to the poet. A bird seems to be at the top of the scale, so vehement and intense his life… The beautiful vagabonds, endowed with every grace, masters of all climes, and knowing no bounds -- how many human aspirations are realized in their free, holiday-lives - and how many suggestions to the poet in their flight and song!”
(John Burroughs, Birds and Poets, 1887)
    Chapter Six .
     
    There was a knock so soft at my front door that I almost didn’t hear it. I was standing in the kitchen, leaning against the countertop and eating from a bowl of oatmeal that I held in one hand. I sighed and glanced at the clock. It was a little after seven, and I thought that was too early for anyone to be bugging me.
    I kept my bowl in one hand, and passed through the living room and to the front door. I