After the supper was eaten and Mrs. Duff had cleared away the dishes, Pete Carmody got to his feet and clapped his hands for attention.
“We will now,” he proclaimed, “play charades. Miss Vicki Barr will captain one team and I will captain the other. Vicki, take your first choice of players.”
In the winter-crisp air of New York, and the informal atmosphere of the apartment which she shared with her friends, Vicki relaxed and gave her mind over to the problem of how to act out “A horse—a horse—my kingdom for a horse!”
But deep in her subconscious, like chips of wood in a whirlpool, names and people and things were churning themselves up and around and over and over—Joey’s flashlight, a slick Latin-type importer, a sick old man on an airplane, a restaurant in Ybor City, a tired-looking FBI man trying to solve a challenging case.
She was glad when the party broke up early and she could tumble into bed.
“Isn’t this turpentine smell awful?” Jean said as she turned out the light and pulled the covers up over her head.
“You won’t believe it, Jean,” Vicki said, “but it smells like oleander. And I wish it wouldn’t.”