Fatal Flowers. V. J. Banis

you.”

      My hand felt clammy as I clutched the receiver tight to my ear. I wondered if anyone could possibly know I was using the telephone. I felt guilty about not having asked permission, and yet I didn’t care.

      “Sheriff’s Office.”

      “Yes. My name is Alice Whelan, I’m Diana Hamilton’s daughter.”

      The man on the other end must have smiled. He sounded pleased. “Oh, yes, Miss Whelan. Some of my men were down at the station when you arrived this morning. How’s your mother?”

      I scowled. Always the same question. Never once did anyone ask about me. After all, I was the one who was almost killed in that plane crash.

      “She’s fine, thank you,” I said, trying hard to keep my voice controlled. “What I’m calling about is something I saw in Gulf Point this morning. It’s been bothering me terribly.”

      “And what might that be?” he asked with a chuckle. “Did the local reporters give you a bad time?”

      “No, nothing like that.” I screwed up my courage. “I saw a girl knocked unconscious and carried away.”

      There was a dead silence on the other end of the line. I just heard him breathing. Then he said, “And just where did you see this happen, Miss Whelan?”

      “Just as the train was pulling into the station. I saw it out of my compartment window.”

      “I see.” He sounded as though he were making notes. But then he put his hand partially over the mouthpiece and started to talk to someone in the background. “It’s that Whelan girl,” I heard him say. “The one who was in the plane crash.”

      I heard someone mutter an answer.

      The hand slipped a little from the mouthpiece. “She claims she saw a girl abducted at Gulf Point station.”

      Laughter. “Her stepfather was right then,” I heard the voice in the background say, most clearly. “He called and said we might be hearing from her with some cock-and-bull story. Shock from the accident, he said.”

      The man came back on the line. “This morning, you say?”

      “Please,” I said, losing my control. “I am not imagining it. I saw a chauffeur hit a girl and knock her unconscious. Then he threw her into a limousine and sped away.”

      “Yes, I see.”

      But I could tell he didn’t see. He was humoring me.

      “Well, we’ll look into it, Miss Whelan. Now you just calm yourself and get a lot of rest, you hear?”

      My frustration was beginning to grow.

      “And tell your mother that Sheriff Anderson conveys his regards.”

      He hung up and left me standing there listening to a dead line.

      I wanted to scream.