Gladys “Glady” Daye opened her saltbox-type home’s front door, looked over the top of her reading glasses, and glared at Burke. “What’s this about? You know I’m not the type of woman to have drama in her life. Calling me up this morning and demanding to speak with me in person. If this has anything to do with drama, you can leave right now, young man. You know my rules. You know the way I live.”
“Business,” Burke said, smiling.
Glady hadn’t changed ever since his childhood and probably never would. On the plumper side. Blue-eyed. Wrinkles from seven decades of growth around her mouth. A grandmother now. Intimidating, blunt, and mostly always serious, the woman of sixty-eight looked as if she had lost twenty pounds. Her arms were less flabby, strangely slimmer. Retired for the last three
