A Murder Misstery Aloft

As if to prove to myself that it really happened, I reached over to the night table and looked at the photograph which Mom had given me the night before. It showed a little girl, in a velvet dress and white tights, sitting on Santa's lap. The back of the photo said that it had been taken at Marshall Fields. The little girl was me.

There was a rap on my door, and Mom walked in, looking ten years younger, with a contented smile on her face. "Morning, sleepyhead!" she said as she drew back the curtains. "Breakfast will be ready in half an hour."

I quickly showered, washed and dried my hair, and returned to my room to get dressed. Soon I was bounding down the stairs in a kilt, turtleneck and tights, just the way I used to when I was her little girl, only now it was all for real. The smell of bacon and coffee was wonderful, and I busied myself with helping her set the table and pour the juice. Breakfast was delicious, and we sat down at the kitchen table, each lost in her own thoughts, as we lingered over our morning coffee. "My lawyer is coming over this morning," Mom finally broke the silence. "I need to sign some forms to probate your father's estate. Afterwards, I thought we might go downtown for a ladies' lunch."
"Mom, there's something I need to tell you. Yesterday, I was planning to go to Dad's funeral, but I lost my nerve after I noticed that the FBI had it under surveillance."

"The FBI! I thought they thought you were dead."

"So did I, but it was the same two agents who chased after me in Europe." I'd told her all about my adventures the night before, and she asked me to describe them. When I did, she nodded knowingly.

"I've seen them hanging around Winnetka." She got up and peeked out the living room window. "There's no sign of them now, but the men you described have been around the neighborhood asking questions about you, and every so often I'll see one of them when I'm at the store or driving by. The nerve of them staking out your father's funeral!"