Medda wandered about turning on the lamps.
“So…you like to read?” Duke asked, and I was impressed that he could keep a straight face.
She gazed around the office and nodded. “When buying books, I always tell myself, ‘Medda, it could be worse. It could be amphetamines and male escorts.’ ”
“The male escorts,” Duke said, “could help you organize the books. The amphetamines too, come to think of it.”
“You’re writing a new book?” I asked, nodding toward the piles upon piles of papers.
“Retired,” she said. “Out With a Bang!was my last Odin novel. Hence the title,” she said as she shifted book stacks around, perhaps hoping to actually find her desk under all the mess.
“I suppose you’re a Book Witch, as well?” Duke asked. “As you know about me and weren’t nearly as surprised and amazed to meet me as I would’ve liked.”
“Not a Book Witch,” she said. “But I don’t know a writer alive who’d be surprised to learn fictional characters have a reality of their own. Plus, I’ve even consulted on a few of the Coven’s cases. I assume you’re here for the same reason?”
“Actually, no,” I said. “There’s a strong possibility Duke and I are in a story. A mystery story. Sort of. Kind of. We need an expert opinion.”
“Really?” Medda said, eyes wide with astonishment. “How do you figure that?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but Duke raised his hand.
“Yes, Duke?” Medda said.
“Not to interrupt, but is tea an option?”
Medda looked at me. “He’s never met a writer before, has he?”
Ten minutes later…
“Tea is served,” Medda said, carrying a tray into the office with mugs for us all, including catnip tea for Koshka.
“You keep catnip tea on hand?” I asked as I put the mug on the floor for the boy.
“I had some left from my last cat, Velma. Thought I’d thrown it all out, but I found some in the back of the pantry.”
My stomach clenched in sympathy. “I’m so sorry. Your cat died?”
“Six months back. She was twenty and had a good long life. I’ve missed having a cat in the house. Never gone this long without one.” She gave Koshka a pat between his ears. He bopped his head into her hand, a sure sign he liked her.
Laughing softly, she took her seat behind the desk, sipped her tea, and said, “Story time.”
Duke raised his hand again.
“What now?” she asked him, not unkindly.
He lifted his teacup. “It’s not poisoned, is it?”
“Not yet,” she said in a singsong warning.
Cowed, Duke drank his tea.
“Now,” Medda said, “tell me everything.”
Over the next half hour, I told the story from the very beginning. My mother’s odd disappearing act and death when I was a baby. Her case files being taken. My grandfather leaving a week ago under very mysterious circumstances. The theft of my Nancy Drew book. The bizarre phone call from Pops. Stealing my umbrella. The Gatsby party. Our failures in Wonderland, the teapot, and the clue about the answer staring us in the face.
“And then,” I concluded, “Duke realized this whole thing feels exactly like one of his mystery novels, so we thought maybe a mystery novelist could help us figure out what’s going on?”
She mulled this over a moment before answering. “If you want my professional opinion, it does sound like someone is attempting to drag you through the Rube Goldberg machine that is a fictional mystery plot. And if you are in a whodunit, question number one is…Who’s doing it? Any theories?”
