Heathcliff grunted, then turned to Morrie, who was sprawled on the leather chair with Quoth perched on the armrest, diligently trying to tear into a packet of dried cranberries with his beak. “Can I talk to Mina alone?”
Morrie stood up. “Fine. I’m going to the shops, because we have nothing except bird food. Anyone need anything?”
“Croak!” Quoth shook his cranberry packet at Morrie.
“Just coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.” I held out my empty reusable cup. Morrie slotted it into his expensive leather satchel and headed for the door.
“I want my peaceful shop back,” Heathcliff growled. “Failing that, a cheese scone.”
“One cheese scone, coming up. You want in, birdie?” Morrie used to use that nickname to belittle Quoth, but now he said it with such tenderness and affection that I no longer told him to stop.
“Croak!” Quoth fluttered after Morrie, still clutching his bag of cranberries in his talons.
Curious, I watched Heathcliff as he stepped into the room, a wave of his achingly beautiful spice-and-moss scent following after him. My pulse raced as his black eyes burned into mine. He must’ve just come from the shower, because his hair was damp across his head and his clothes were only artfully rumpled as opposed to their usual state resembling the surface of the moon. He carried a heavy leather book, which he set on the velvet chair as he walked past. He placed his hands on the desk and loomed over me, one messy dark curl falling over his intense eyes. I knew Heathcliff was waiting for me to get out of his chair. Well, he may have run things back at Wuthering Heights, but he wasn’t the one with a million things to do today. I remained where I was and tapped my to-do list with the end of the pen.
Heathcliff spun the pad around to face him, his frown deepening as he read the items. “You haven’t changed your mind about this poxy event, then?”
“Nope. It’s happening.” I tried to grab my pad back, but Heathcliff slid it out of reach. He jabbed a finger at one of the lines.
“You’re not doing a Q&A.”
“Of course we are. People will want to ask the writer questions.”
“You don’t want them to do that.”
“Why?”
“Not even the sting of Hindley’s whip is more painful than a Q&A at a writer’s event,” Heathcliff declared, waving the pad around. “There are no actual questions – most are thinly veiled excuses to wax lyrical about their own work, moronic accusations requiring the author to defend their work to insufferable plebs, gushing praise that no one gives a fuck about, or something so utterly unoriginal like ‘where do you get your ideas?’ that it’s a wonder that writers don’t expire from boredom on the spot.”
I managed to whip my list out of his hands. “Well, you’re not helping, so I don’t see why you get an opinion.”
“Maybe not.” Heathcliff picked up the book and slammed it down on the desk between us. “But I have found something about Mr. Simson.”
“Oh?” My hand flew to my purse again, fingering the edge of the letter from my father. We’d figured out it was likely my father and Mr. Simson – the shop’s proprietor before Heathcliff – knew each other. My father appeared to be hiding somewhere in time, but if we could locate Mr. Simson, then we might be able to get him to tell us who my father was and where we could find him.
I knew it was a long shot. Mr. Simson was an old man who was nearly completely blind when I knew him as a child. He could be dead or degrading in a wrinkly village somewhere. But as soon as Heathcliff said his name, my heart raced faster.I have to hope.
A cloud of dust rose up as Heathcliff cracked open the book and flipped through the pages. “I’ve been hunting through Simson’s old ledgers, invoices, bills, and other documents, hoping to find some information about where he might have gone. I didn’t get that lucky, but I did find this.”
He turned the book toward me and jabbed a finger at the page. I bent down to inspect it. It was an invoice from another book collector for a small set of occult volumes, made out to Mr. Simson. This time, his first name was printed in full:
Homer.
“His name is Homer. So?” I frowned at Heathcliff. “How is this going to help us?”
“You remember the book that appeared on the floor after we found the Terror of Argleton?”
I smiled at the name the Argleton papers had given to a tiny mouse that had caused havoc in local shops until his untimely death gave us the essential clue we needed to solve a murder. “Yeah, the one with the unpronounceable title about the frogs and mice having a war.”
“Right. Simson’s first name is the same name as the author of that text, and it’s also the same initials as Herman Strepel, who we’re pretty sure is your father.” Heathcliff jabbed his finger into the ledger. “We’ve been thinking that Strepel was using the bookshop to give us a message about Mrs. Scarlett’s killer with that book, but maybe the book itself was the clue.”
“What are you saying?” I asked slowly, not following where his thoughts led.
Heathcliff’s lips turned up into a rare smile. “I’m saying that I think our bookshop proprietor and Mr. Strepel the medieval bookbinder are the same person, and that person is your father. ”
My mind reeled. I leaned back in the chair, my eyes leaping from the ledger to Heathcliff’s face, registering the significance of what he was saying. Grimalkin leaped up on the desk and plonked down on the book. She stared down Heathcliff with a defiant, “meorrw,” before lifting her leg in the air and delicately washing her derriere.
“Good. Because I thought for a second there you were going to tell me my dad was a dead epic poet, and then we’d have to get your head examined.” I rubbed my temple, reaching out to pat Grimalkin with the other hand. “You’re right. It makes perfect sense. Mr. Simson was blind. I inherited my retinitis pigmentosa from my father. Mr. Simson told you that you had to protect me, which also seems to be my father’s jam, according to his letter. I mean, I find it hard to believe my mum fell into bed with a doddering old bookstore owner, but…”
