Most scary of all, my husband (his name is Brian Scott) has almost been killed two times. Once, the wall of the new drying shed blew down in a windstorm and the roof fell in right where he had just been standing, but luckily it missed him. Another time, the jeep he was riding in went off a steep road and my husband broke his arm in two places and the man who was riding with him lost two teeth, but they could just as easily have been killed because the jeep turned over when it went down the mountainside.

Please, mother Pele, we meant no harm. Please forgive our ignorance. I am returning these stones so that they can be placed in the volcano where they belong, and our lives can return to normal.

Sincerely,

Therese Druett Scott

Cripes. Brenda sat back with pursed lips and let out a thoughtful breath. Therese, whose gifts lay more in the direction of a sweet-tempered disposition than an abundance of brains, might have things a little scrambled, but she was apparently right about one thing: something was amiss at the Paradise Coffee plantation.

She rose thoughtfully and headed for the door.

Mrs. Laney, who had been eagerly awaiting more information, was indignant. “And that's all you're going to tell me? That it's from your cousin?"

"What?” Brenda was already in the hallway, re-reading the letter as she walked. “Oh…I need to make a phone call, Ruby…"

"I don't understand,” Therese said in that soft, appealingly hesitant voice of hers. “How do you know about my letter?"