That was the only sound he heard. He lived on the seventh floor behind a winding set of hallways that towered over her in their grayness. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. Lucy had baked the apple and pumpkin pies, carefully molding the flour crusts and adding extra teaspoonfuls of allspice and cinnamon while no one looked. He caught the elderly dame’s eye, throwing her a desperate message. But whither The Tigress was bound or who the owner was lay beyond the reach of Ah Cum's deductions.
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