They left. People trickled into the shop. A forty-something man in a horrific sweater purchased two hundred pounds worth of railway books. One lady forgot her reading glasses and made me read the first chapter ofThe Grapes of Wrathout loud to see if she liked it, then refused to pay two-pounds-fifty for it and instead brought it on her e-reader right in front of me. Heathcliff got into another argument with The-Store-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named and karate-chopped the armadillo which, thankfully, survived. Morrie came home from another mysterious outing around three p.m. and pulled me into the storage room, bent me over a box of aviation magazines, and made me feel really, really good. Quoth pooped on two people who quoted ‘The Raven.’ Toward the end of the day, villagers crowded in to peer over the crime scene tape at the spot where Mrs. Scarlett had expired. Basically, it was a typical day.
We closed up at the usual time. I texted Jo and told her to come for dinner and a drink after she finished work, then walked over to the off-license and picked up a couple bottles of £2.99 wine. When I entered the living room of the upstairs flat, the fire had been lit, the curtains drawn, and the lights dimmed. Heathcliff settled in his armchair, his unruly hair falling over his eyes as he devoured a book. Grimalkin sat in his lap, her paws curled beneath her like a sphinx. Quoth set up an easel in the corner closest to the hall, adding rolling hills to a birds-eye-view landscape of the village.
Morrie frowned as he pulled the bottles out of the brown paper bag and lined them up on the mantelpiece.
“Can’t you choose somethingFrench? I have my doubts as to the grape quality in the ‘famous wine region of Suffolk.’”
“I’ll get the fanciest wine they offer when Heathcliff gives me a raise.”
“No,” Heathcliff muttered from his chair, without looking up from his book.
“Look at this one.” Morrie jabbed his finger at the label. “‘Bouquet’ is spelled wrong. That’s it, gorgeous. I’m officially banning you from all alcoholic choices hereafter.”
Morrie tossed my unopened bottles into the recycling and disappeared into the kitchen. A moment later, he returned with a dusty bottle bearing a label in what looked suspiciously like medieval Latin.
“This is more like it,” he grinned, pouring five glasses and handing them around.
“This looks old.” I sipped the wine. My mouth exploded with sensation – caramel, honey, almonds, and citrus compote blended together into a sweet, heady taste that clung to my throat. “Wow, it’s amazing. Do I want to know where this came from?”
“You do not.” Morrie lifted his glass at me and winked.
“It tastes like a musty old boot,” Heathcliff glowered at his glass.
I whipped it out of his hand. “I’ll have yours, then.”
Heathcliff grunted, but I’d already slid down beside Quoth, sipping the delicious wine and watching his delicate brush-strokes. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay down here with Jo?”
“I’m going to try,” he said. “I can focus on my painting, and maybe my head won’t go to the bad places it goes to before I shift.”
“What bad places?”
Quoth’s fingers pinched the brush so hard his knuckles turned white. “Not now. She’ll be here any minute. Later.”
I rested my head against his shoulder. His hair fell across my face – luminous strands of the deepest black, tinged with indigo and gold.Quoth, what’s going on inside that head of yours?
Jo’s face appeared in the doorway. “Hey. Hope you guys don’t mind, but I picked up some fish and chips on the way over.”
I leapt up to embrace her. Morrie joined our hug, and placed a wine glass in her hand. Jo nodded at Heathcliff as she set down the hot parcel of food, and strode up to Quoth and offered her hand.
I held my breath as she addressed him. “Nice to meet you, I’m Jo.”
Quoth’s face tightened with concentration as he shook Jo’s hand. “Allan, but everyone calls me Quoth. You’re the forensic pathologist.”
“And you’re the artist who painted those amazing pictures hung all over the shop. I want to buy the one with theL’Inconnue de la Seinehanging downstairs. If you’ll take cash, I’ll bring it home with me tonight.”
Quoth’s entire face lit up. “You really want my painting?”
Jo whipped out a leather purse and counted out a stack of notes. “Shut up and take my money. I must have that painting for my office. And I’m going to tell all my colleagues about you. Keep painting morbid scenes and you’ll have your artwork in every mortuary in the UK.”
Quoth’s smile radiated through his whole body. His teeth glowed, his eyes dancing with flecks of orange fire. I slid back down next to him, and he reached behind my back and squeezed my hand.
“Which ugly painting isThe Unknown Woman of the Seine?” Morrie asked, flawlessly translating the French phrase Jo spoke before.
“It’s the one hanging behind Heathcliff’s desk, of the woman staring with a serene expression through the dark water,” I recalled.
“She was a real person,” Jo explained. “An unknown drowning victim found in the Paris river in the 1800s. A pathologist in the city morgue became so smitten with her tranquil features and exquisite beauty that he made a plaster death mask, which was then copied and became a popular wall hanging in well-to-do homes from the 1900s onward. Her likeness was also used to create the face of the first ever CPR doll in 1958, and she’s still used on all CPR dolls today.”
“That’s a cheery bedtime story.” Heathcliff flipped open the edge of the paper and helped himself to a handful of hot chips. Grimalkin jumped down from his lap and put her paws on the edge of the table, her little black nose twitching in anticipation of a fishy treat.
