“The mouse in the paper?” Mum’s ears pricked up. “Did you get a picture?”
“Hardly. The bloody thing is too fast for us. Not even the shop cat Grimalkin has been able to catch him.”
“I know!” Mum rummaged through the stack of books on the table. She pulled one out and thrust it into Heathcliff’s lap. “You need this!”
I glanced at the title.Mouse Language for Humans. “Mum, no—”
“Yes, it’s perfect! You can translate his squeaks, figure out what he wants, and then use that to trap him.”
Heathcliff’s jaw worked up and down. I thought he was pissed, but then I noticed the sparkle in his eye as he struggled to hold back laughter.
Morrie rubbed his chin. “It’s worth a shot. At this stage, I’ll do anything to get rid of that foul creature. How much do I owe you for the book?”
“Keep that one for free. When you capture the mouse, the paper will do a story on you and you can tell them all about how my book helped you. We can work together to improve our PR!”
“An excellent plan.” Morrie patted Heathcliff’s knee. “Heathcliff definitely needs some help with his PR.”
Heathcliff slipped the book into his jacket. “Thank you,” he managed to choke out.
“Mum, there actually is something we want to ask you. Has Sylvia Blume had any recent run-ins with Dorothy Ingram lately? Or Ginny Button?”
“Oh, Mina, you’re not meddling in that murder, are you?” Mum frowned. “You’ll make the police suspect you again.”
“I’m not, Mum. I swear.” I thought quickly. “I’m just found this old article in the paper while I was helping Mrs. Ellis write the obituary.”
I whipped out my phone and showed her the article. She skimmed through it, her mouth turning into a smile at Mrs.Scarlett’s barbed words.
“Sylvia’s nasty business with Dorothy Ingram was over many years ago. As far as I know, Dorothy has never set foot in the shop nor said another word about Sylvia being a witch. Ginny Button came in all the time laden in diamonds to have her fortune read. Weirdly, she never seemed to pay for her readings. I didn't like her very much – she said such snide things about my outfits.” Mum smoothed down the front of the mustard-colored cocktail dress she’d scored from the charity shop. “I suppose she won’t be saying anything now.”
“Did you ever see Ginny with Mrs. Scarlett?”
“Oh, all the time! Those two were heavily involved in the historical society, who’ve been working on that big project at the old Argleton hospital, you know, sorting through the records, etc, before it’s torn down. They’d pop back to town for coffee and come in to gossip with Sylvia. Of course,” she frowned, “that hasn’t been happening recently.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know, honey. All Sylvia said was that she wasn’t happy with the way Gladys was running the planning committee. But I don’t pay any attention to that political stuff.”
The buzzer went off in the kitchen. Mum stood up. “Oh, that’s dinner. Mina, if you could seat everyone at the table and make sure the glasses are full.”
I pulled out chairs and everyone sat down. Mum bustled back from the kitchen, carrying a large tray of something that looked suspiciously like meatball stack.
Itismeatball stack. What is she thinking?
I’d practically been raised on meatball stack. It consisted of layers of hash browns, boiled eggs, and cheap sausages chopped up into pieces and cooked in canned pasta sauce, and all finished off with a layer of cheese.
My cheeks reddened. To Mum, this was her signature dish, but to anyone else, it was a horrifying wobbly, greasy mess. It was almost,almostworth seeing gourmet Morrie’s face twitch as she set the dish down in front of him and started cutting through the cheesy hash brown crust.
“Is this enough for you, Morrie?” she said brightly, serving him a huge dollop. The tomato sauce glowed a lurid red under the fluorescent lights in our kitchen.
“Oh, yes, that will be lovely.” Morrie grabbed his wine and drained it, then reached for the bottle on the counter and filled his glass right to the brim.
“Mina, pass around the salad,” Mum ordered, as she dumped an even bigger slice on Heathcliff’s plate.
Gingerly, I lifted the lids off the two dishes on the table, revealing a Tesco’s potato salad and some sad-looking dinner rolls. Beside my mother’s food, Mrs. Ellis’ golden brown cottage pie looked like Michelin star fare.
Heathcliff dug in as soon as Mum handed him his plate. Mum beamed as if it was a compliment to her culinary skills. It wasn’t – the moors must have addled Heathcliff’s tastebuds because he’d eatanything. I once saw him chew on a licorice rope so old it hadfossilized. I picked at my food, too mortified to taste a single mouthful.
“This is delicious, Helen.” Morrie winked at me as he forced down another bite. “Is this what you cook every time Mina brings a boyfriend home?”
