No Red Roses

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With a sigh of relief, Tamara Ledford pulled into the driveway of the roomy old Victorian house where she'd lived all her twenty-three years. The gracious, turreted white frame house exuded an aura of mellow serenity that seemed to wrap her in a comforting embrace, and she badly needed that comfort at the moment. She jumped out of her old Toyota, slammed the door, and walked swiftly along the flower-bordered path and up the four stairs to the frosted glass- paneled front door.

She paused for a moment and drew a deep breath, trying to cool the anger and tension that had robbed her of her usual composure. There was no sense in disturbing Aunt Elizabeth over something as trivial as Celia Bettencourt's bitchiness. And, if she didn't calm down, her aunt would definitely notice how upset she was. Even if Aunt Elizabeth's "gift" wasn't fully operational at any given moment, like this one, she was always uncannily perceptive.

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