“Well, she writes very dark storybooks. Ready?”
Duke, Koshka, and I strolled nervously up the cobblestone path to her front door.
“What about the boy?” Duke asked.
“You mean my cat? Again…have you ever met—”
“A writer? Right. Yes. Understood. What about me? Cover story?”
“I’ll tell her you’re my friend Nick.”
“Of course,” he said. “You ring though. I’m too nervous.”
“You’re scared of Medda Baker?”
“She kills people,” he said.
“Only in books.”
“Yes, in books, where Ilive,” he reminded me.
“I’ll protect you from the big bad writer,” I said, patting him on the back.
I rang the doorbell twice and waited.
After a few tense seconds, we heard steps and the floor creaking and a lock unlocking.
The door slowly opened to reveal a woman, approximately five feet tall and eighty years old. She looked like the platonic ideal of a grandmother. Cut her and she would bleed doilies and Werther’s Originals.
“Rainy March, is that you?” She perched her reading glasses on the tip of her nose.
“Hi, Ms. Baker. I was hoping you could help me with something story-related.”
“Of course, of course, come right in.” She shuffled back and held the door open for us. “Who’s your handsome friend?”
“This is Koshka, my cat, and this is, um…”
“Nick,” Duke said. “Nick Baron. Ma’am. Madam. Miss…tress. Mistress ma’am. Milady.”
Medda looked at me.
“He’s nervous that you’ll murder him,” I explained. “Since you kill people on paper.”
She laughed and held her hand out to him.
“Little ole me?” she said with a sweet grandmotherly smile. “Don’t you worry about that, young man. I’d never murder the Duke of Chicago.”
We stared at her, shocked, jaws scraping the porch.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Medda said to me. “Of course I know who he is. I’m a Ducky too.”
Chapter Twenty
Medda led us through her house and down a hall that led to her office.
Inside, the cottage looked like…well, imagine a cottage. There. That’s it. Floral wallpaper in shades of pale green, pink, and yellow. Some cozy old furniture and rugs, a fireplace, and some family photos on the side tables. Neat and sweet.
The office was a different story, however. Pure literary chaos. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Towers of books on the floor. Boxes of books. Bags of books. Even a laundry basket of books. A desk was somewhere under the rubble. Koshka charged straight in and leapt onto the windowsill while Duke and I moved books off the chairs, a necessary maneuver before we could sit down.
