Chapter ThirteenMyrtle slept in later than she’d planned that morning. Considering that she didn’t turn in until six a.m., she didn’t feel too scandalized that she’d awakened at ten-thirty in the morning. What did scandalize her was the fact that her doorbell was ringing.
She muttered a couple of choice words for the doorbell, pulled on a bathrobe (inside-out, as she unhappily discovered later), and patted at her white hair, which was standing up like Einstein’s again. Myrtle staggered to the front door since she couldn’t figure out in her sleepy stupor where her cane was.
She peered apprehensively through the front window, saw Wanda, the psychic, and instantly relaxed. Wanda, or Wander, as her brother called her, lived off the old highway in a shack covered with hubcaps. The rotting sig
