But Gladys Scarlett didn’t seem to have noticed the question. She set down her teacup and rubbed her fingers against the palm of her hand.
“You okay, Gladys?”
“Of course. I’ve just got pins and needles in my hand. I’ll be fine in a moment.” Mrs. Scarlett ate a sandwich and a cream doughnut from her plate, then fumbled for her teacup, closing her eyes as she sipped the hot liquid. “Enough about me, let us get on with our business.Of Mice and Menexplores the intimate journey of two men who cling to each other in loneliness and isolation. The title, of course, is taken from the Robert Burn’s poem, ‘To a Mouse,’ which translates to ‘The best-laid schemes of mice and men / Often go awry.’ It refers to the ambitions of the main characters in the book that are thwarted by their ownm-m-mouse!”
“Exactly, Gladys,” exclaimed Sylvia Blume. “The symbolism of the mouse was very interesting because—”
“No, amouse!”Mrs. Scarlett thrust out a wavering finger across the room.
As I stared in horror, a tiny white blob with a brown patch rocketed up the corner of the bookshelf and darted along the tops of the books. It raised a pink nose, sniffed the air, then disappeared behind the shelf with a flick of its tail.
Mrs. Scarlett’s face crumpled. She clutched her stomach. A strangled sob escaped her throat.
“Eeeee!” Mrs. Lachlan yelled, leaping from her own chair and dropping a red velvet cupcake on the floor. “Someone get that filthy rodent before it contaminates the food!”
I gripped Quoth’s thigh, watching his face contort as his predator instincts took over. Feathers shot through his skin. Luckily, the other ladies were too distracted to notice. He dropped his cup – smashing the china and splashing hot tea across the rug – and dived behind the shelves.
“Ow, you burned me!” Ginny snapped, rubbing her leg.
CRASH! BANG!
Books toppled to the floor. The mouse darted out from behind the shelves and streaked across the floor, disappearing into the sofa and clambering up the curtain above Mrs. Scarlett’s head. Her face froze in reddened horror, and her whole body heaved as though she struggled for breath.
“Croak!” Quoth flew out from behind the shelves and dived at the window. Tea cakes and old ladies scattered in all directions. Quoth’s talons scratched the glass as he snapped at the curtains. The mouse poked its head out from the opposite end of the curtain rail, twitched its nose, and disappeared down the other curtain and into the stacks again.
I leapt to my feet and waved at the bird. “He’s over there! Try to chase him into the corner. I’ll get the broom and—”
“G-g-g-geeeeee…”
I whirled around. All thoughts of the mouse flew from my mind as I regarded Mrs. Scarlett’s face. Something was seriously wrong.
Her eyes bugged out like a frog. One side of her face twitched uncontrollably, while the other stuck fast in an expression of abject terror. Her skin glowed red. Bile and spittle dribbled from her mouth. She clutched her stomach and doubled over, banging the table with her knee as she collapsed.
“Gladys, what’s wrong?” Mrs. Ellis bent over her friend.
“I’m calling 999,” Mrs. Winstone whipped out her phone.
With a final wheezing cry, Mrs. Scarlett collapsed forward, face-planting into the Victoria sponge cake. Ginny screamed as cream splattered across her silk blouse.
“Mrs. Scarlett? Gladys?” My heart pounded. I shook her shoulder, but she didn’t move or react.
No, no, no, no. This can’t be happening.I lifted her wrist and felt for a pulse. There was none.
She’s dead.
Chapter Six
“Just when I thought I’d seen the last of this bookshop, you’re stacking up the dead bodies like unread Dan Brown books,” Jo joked as she clattered down the hall, pulling on her rubber gloves. Her medical kit slapped against her thigh.
I managed a weak smile for my new friend. As the local forensic pathologist, Jo had a real gallows humor about dead bodies and grisly murders. I wasn’t nearly so desensitized. Up until a month ago when my ex-best friend was found murdered in the shop, I’d never seen a dead body. I still pictured Ashley’s prone form with the knife sticking out of her back in my nightmares.
“At least it’s not murder this time. In here?” Jo pointed to the entrance to the World History room, where the EMTs were waiting with the stretcher to take the body away after she’d pronounced the death and examined the scene.
I nodded. Jo disappeared inside. I leaned against a bookshelf, trying to keep my wobbling legs upright. Another dead body in Nevermore Bookshop. How was this even possible?
Jo’s right. This is completely different from before. It’s not a murder. This is just a horrible accident. It’s what happens when you host book club meetings for octogenarians.
But no matter what I told myself, my legs kept shaking and my heart pattered against my chest. I knew something wasn’t right here.
