She and Courtlaw drove homewards together. ‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly. With the same inducements we should all do the same thing. It begins with that queer piccolo solo. She always dawdled, so it was easy. She felt her chest trying to float up, but the blessed undertow, the dreaded reason why she was warned to never bathe in the ocean, sucked her feet down, putting the decision where it belonged, into the hands of God. Teenagers buzzed about her newly discovered talent for the violin in the same sentences as they gossiped about her torrid police scandal and a lost mother who remained in the deep shadows of murder mystery.
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