Chapter the First

Ingrid hated a mess. More than mess, she hated a spotless house. She preferred a happy medium; just enough clutter spread about the tidy California Bunglaow she called home to provide some useful diversion for the quieter hours of her senior citizen's life. She'd never adjusted to growing older, and therefore had never learned to interest herself in needlepoint, knitting, painting by number, golf, or gardening. She never married, and thus no grandchildren existed to occupy her autumnal years.

She was an authoress of sorts, and had gained both fame and fortune early in her career for "Hildegard's Whim" a rather brooding gothic melodrama. The women of the 1930's and 40's appreciated her work and for 10 years a strong fan base sustained her career by purchasing sequels and other short stories. However, it wasn't long before modern dimestore romance writers eclipsed her. Because Ingrid refused to write anything she'd be ashamed to read to her cat (she was quite convinced that her cat was a staunch Presbyterian) her publisher soon dropped her, and she was left with a small fortune which she had the good sense to invest.

At 80 years of age she was reasonably comfortable and utterly unknown. Aside from occasional stiffness in her joints, she enjoyed perfect health and as a result had little in common with friends of her youth who were forever telephoning to bemoan their latest set of ailments.

We come upon our heroine in a relaxed attitude, comfortably ensconced in the window seat of her second floor dormer room, wrapped in a bright red kimono that was given her by F. Scott Fitzgerald back in the glory days. She is sipping a hot cup of Earl Grey and is about to be disagreeably interrupted.