Chapter Thirteen
Calliope and Wilson overslept the following morning, and Wilson was cranky because of it. He was one of those people who had difficulty adapting to a change in schedule or routine and he, like no one else, allotted a time and place for his daily constitutionals, as he liked to call his groove.
First thing in the morning he showered, even though he’d showered the night before ― wouldn’t want to meet his creator without bathing first, he always said. Then he brushed his teeth and shaved. Then came breakfast ― poached egg and dry toast ― and from there the daily newspaper kept him company for fifteen minutes, then it was off to either the Aquatic Center or the Gowan Brae Golf & Country Club, depending whether the day was even or odd.
The remainder of his day was devoted to R & R, which entailed a twenty-minute nap in his favorite recliner, and reading, all at their allotted times, of course.
Calliope’s days, on the other hand, were as spontaneous as Wilson’s were scheduled.
Today, however, Calliope had a purpose. In the hullabaloo Abbott had caused at the police station yesterday, the police had forgotten to take the morphine from her. She looked at the little button bag in her hand holding ten pills and giggled.