“Why do we have to take a taxi?” Heathcliff grumbled. “It’s a waste of money. Your little church fete stall didn’t exactly rake in the millions.”
“Cheer up, Lord Crotchety-Goo,” I grinned. Heathcliff hated it when we made up noble names for him. “We’re taking a taxi because it’s a long way for Mrs. Ellis to walk, especially while there’s a murderer on the loose. And that’s the last complaint I’m hearing about it, or we’re staying for a game of after-dinner charades.”
Heathcliff snapped his mouth shut as the taxi pulled up. The five of us piled in – Mrs. Ellis in the front seat, her sequined shawl pulled up around her ample shoulders. Me in the middle between Heathcliff and Morrie. Quoth in a fold-down seat in the back. Jo had called earlier to excuse herself – she had to conduct the autopsy on Ginny Button. She’d also given me the good news that the child – a little boy – had survived and was in stable condition at the hospital.
Morrie and Mrs. Ellis kept up a steady stream of chatter as we drove through the council estate. I stared out the window, cringing at every detail. Heathcliff’s huge fingers clamped on my knee and wouldn’t let go. I thought he was just trying to reassure me, but when I looked at his face, his features were drawn.He’s nervous, too.
I didn’t know what to make of that.
We turned the final corner and slowed down in front of our row of flats. The next-door neighbors were having some kind of party. People spilled out their door onto the rickety deck and the overgrown lawn, and out into the street. Our driver swore as he swerved around a large sofa that had been set on fire in the middle of the road. People laughed and shouted as they tossed beer cans into the blaze.
“Well,” Mrs. Ellis said with fake brightness as she slid out of the taxi and clutched her purse against her chest. “This islovely. Very festive.”
“At least they’re staying warm,” Morrie’s teeth chattered. He’d worn one of his tailored jackets over grey slacks and a thin white shirt and black silk waistcoat. He looked delicious, but not exactly dressed for a British winter evening.
Mum threw open the front door, beaming down at us. She wore an apron and a chef’s hat made of rolled-up newspaper. “Come on in!”
No, mum, no. She acted like a complete fool, trying to pretend she was super fancy, whenever I brought anyone around to the house, which I hadn’t done since the first time Ashley came over for dinner and Mum tried to smoke her own salmon in her Gore-Met Kitchen Whiz (another get-rich-quick-scheme) and gave Ashley food poisoning.
I gritted my teeth.Just get this over with and she’ll stop hassling me about the shop. “Hi, Mum, we’re all here.” The guys followed me inside, Mrs. Ellis trailing behind. As we filed into the living room, I peeked at the kitchenette table. Mum had cleared away the boxes of crap that usually littered the surface, and set placemats (colored cardboard) and all our best crockery and glassware (all mismatched, chosen because they were the pieces with the smallest chips). Two bowls sat in the middle of the table, lids on tight. I shuddered to think what might be inside. A stack of pet dictionaries had been artfully fanned across the table.
This is going to be a disaster.
“Well, here we are.” Mum clasped her hands to her chest. “I’m so pleased to finally be meeting Mina’s new friends.”
Morrie stepped forward and held out his hand. “James Moriarty, although my friends call me Morrie. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Wilde. I’ve chosen a wine for the occasion – it’s a sparkling wine, so it will need to be kept chilled at ideally six degrees. Do you have an ice bucket?”
Mum didn’t register the significance of Morrie’s name. She wasn’t exactly a big reader. “Thank you, Morrie. No ice bucket, I’m afraid, but you could stick it in the freezer for a bit? My, you’re tall.”
“Yes, I am. Apart from my dashing wit, it’s one of my finest features.” Morrie went into the kitchen to fuss over the wine situation.
Heathcliff stepped forward and offered his hand. His frame loomed large in our tiny flat, and under the fluorescent light, his black eyes and wild hair gave him a menacing air. “Heathcliff,” he muttered.
Mum hesitated a moment before shaking his hand. “Do you have a last name, there, Heathcliff?”
“Just Heathcliff.”
“It’s Earnshaw,” I shot Heathcliff a withering look. In his world, he’d had only the one name, but ours demanded a surname.
“Heathcliff Earnshaw.” Those words sound so wrong on my mother’s tongue. “That’s a very English sounding name. But you’re not English, are you?”
I glared at her, but she pretended not to notice.
Heathcliff shrugged. “That depends on your definition.”
“Well,Heathcliff, I’d say that a real Englishman would be—”
“I’m Allan Poe,” Quoth stepped around Heathcliff’s bulk and stuck out his hand.
Thank you, my beautiful raven.
As Mum turned from Heathcliff to greet Quoth, she jumped a little, and her eyes glazed over. Whatever horrendous thing she was about to say to Heathcliff slipped from her lips. Quoth’s beauty had that effect on people.
“It’s a pleasure, Allan,” Mum breathed, her eyes flickering over Quoth’s porcelain skin and deep fire-ringed eyes and black hair that fell like a midnight waterfall down his back.
“And I’m Mabel Ellis. I used to teach Mina at school.” Mrs. Ellis wrapped my mother in a warm hug. “It’s so nice of you to have me. Here. I’ve brought a cottage pie.”
“That’s lovely, thank you. Well, let’s not stand around. Please, take a seat. I’ve made spicy chicken starters.” We perched on the threadbare sofas and chipped plastic dining chairs while Mum handed around a plate containing chicken nuggets sprinkled with chili flakes, skewered on toothpicks.
