At last, my cell phone blasted the opening notes of Carly Simon’s “Older Sister.”

“Hey.” I waited, knowing that if I didn’t, my next words would be swallowed.

For once she didn’t hop right in. “Listen,” she said after a pause, “this is serious. I need your help.”

I’m suspicious of emotions, including my own, but I felt an unmistakable surge. Delight I was needed, countered by fear something unthinkable had happened. “Is it Dad?”

She fell silent again, but when she finally spoke she sounded surprised. “No. No, last I heard he was doing okay. I’m not in Florida. Remember?”

It was my turn to be surprised. When our father was catapulted into emergency bypass surgery last week, Wendy had been out of town traveling somewhere in the west for the development company that Dad built one rental property and vacation resort at a time. Wendy is Gracey Group’s concierge and tour manager, and the story goes that as Dad was being wheeled into the operating room, he demanded that our mother tell her to continue the trip.

I was almost sure, though, that she had been scheduled to fly back to Seabank before he was released from the hospital today.

The details were a little foggy because I hadn’t yet been home. The moment I’d learned about the surgery, I had offered to drive to Seabank, but Mom had insisted I stay put on Florida’s Atlantic coast until Dad was ready for a real visit. In the meantime, Mom-of-Steel had continued to care for Wendy’s young daughters, Holly and Noelle, while Wendy was away.

Now, even for her, taking care of the girls and a postsurgical patient was going to be impossible. My father was used to telling everyone else what to do. He was bound to be hell on wheels while he recovered.

I hoped I was worrying for nothing. “When do you get back?”

“That’s the thing. I’m not coming home. I can’t, and I don’t know when I’ll be able to. I need you to go back to Seabank and take care of the girls until things clear up for me.”

“You’re kidding.” I really thought she might be.

“I don’t want to go into detail. Can’t you just trust me and do it?”

I paused, with no plan to restart until I made sense of her request. Finally I said the only thing that occurred to me. “Look, this sounds crazy. You have to tell me more.”

“Great. Thanks a lot.” For the first time Wendy choked up, as if she was trying not to cry. “I’m in Phoenix. Okay? There was a murder last night, and I’m pretty sure the sheriff will think I’m involved. I need to disappear for a while until it’s sorted out. Is that enough to get you moving?”

I tried to rearrange her words into sentences that didn’t catapult our family into an unfamiliar dimension. “Murder?”

“Yes. Probably, anyway. Will you help?”

“You’re not kidding, are you?”

“You got that right.”