Even Gladys Turnbull's alarm must have been muffled enough not to disturb his slumber.
While I dared not say it for fear of being accused of insensitivity, I wondered if the death of Gladys Gillespie might enhance her credibility, reducing the number of those chasing the real Psychic Tipster.
Me standing there half naked, Gladys screaming her fool head off, Edith's body hanging in the middle of the room....
Dean rose and began to leave the room, disgusted that Gladys Turnbull would trivialize Edith Shipton's death in fiction, even before the shattered woman was cold in the ground.
Effie the realist, Claire, her head in self-made dreams of a pretend ancestor, as make-believe as Gladys Turnbull's creatures from Draghow and Zzz.
Left with nothing else to do, Dean turned to Gladys Turnbull, more out of inn-keeper politeness than a desire to engage this strange woman in lengthy conversation.
Finally, he thought he felt a breeze and quietly rose to see if giggly Gladys and her tipsy admirer might have left the front door ajar.
Miracle of miracles, Gladys is awake and it ain't even noon yet.
All the time she was eating, Gladys prattled on about her magnificent dreams of the snow-covered landscape of faraway planets and the lustful urges of their alien inhabitants.
Then there were voices, Gladys with a shrill laugh, than hushed giggling, a stumble on the steps, a grunt and finally silence.