“Things will seemingly get better. Something will jump out at you, give you a brand-new idea. But then things will get much, much worse. In a murder mystery, another body would hit the floor.”
“Someone will die?” I asked, horrified.
“In my stories, yes. In your story? I imagine it’s only a metaphorical body. A failure or a false lead. Still, watch your back.”
Always good advice.
“But don’t you worry. Eventually you’ll figure it all out,” she told us. Then she gasped.
“What?” I asked, hoping she’d thought of something wildly helpful.
“Wait here.” She went back into her house and returned a minute later, holding a book and a pen. “Would it be gauche of me to ask for a signature?”
Medda held the book out to Duke—it wasKiss Me Once, Kill Me Twice,the Duke of Chicago book ten. On the vintage painted cover, a man kisses a woman who holds a gleaming silver knife behind her back.
“I’m having an existential crisis again,” Duke said. “I’ve never been asked to autograph one of my cases before. People died.”
“I suppose it is a bit offensive to ask—” Medda began.
“Not at all.” Duke eagerly reached for the book and pen. “They were bad people.”
Medda half laughed, half coughed at that. She took the book back from Duke and held it tight to her chest. “You two run along. I have to clean my office, and you have a March Hare to find.”
“If you think of anything else, let us know,” I said.
She tapped her chin in deep thought, then she pointed at me. “I can tell you this much. Writers, critics, and scholars squabble all the time about how many types of stories there are in the world. One says there are two—comedy and tragedy. Another says there are seven—quest, voyage and return, et cetera, et cetera. But I firmly believe there is only one type of story in all the world through all the ages. Every story is a mystery story if you don’t know where it’s going. Or, in other words…” she said, lowering her voice dramatically, “things are never what they seem.”
Chapter Twenty-One
We returned to my car. Duke stood by my side, staring at Medda’s house while I buckled Koshka into his carrier.
“I really hope Medda was kidding when she said someone was going to die before this story is over. Pops is eighty-two, you know,” I said, unable to imagine life without my grandfather. No mother, no father, no grandmother, and Duke would have to leave by midnight. I didn’t want to be the only character in this story. I petted Koshka. At least I had him.
“It’s not your grandfather,” Duke said as I stood up and turned to face him.
“How do you know?”
He lowered his voice, then nodded toward the cottage. “Medda was talking about herself.”
“What? How do you know that?”
“I may not know writers, but I know cat people,” he said. “She lost her cat months ago and hasn’t adopted another one? She knows she doesn’t have long and doesn’t want to leave a cat without a home.”
“Maybe she’s not ready.”
“She said she’d never gone so long without a cat. Her fingers were swollen, and I could smell her tea. Ours was Irish breakfast. Hers was lemon and honey. Classic treatment for a cough. Those book piles had little sticky papers on them—”
“Post-it notes?”
“She’s sorting her books to give them away. And boxes of manuscripts for a university. She’s preparing her papers to donate. And one of the books on her desk was a Last Will and Testament preparation kit. It also had those sticky notes in it.”
“And she told me to tell Pops to come see her in a hurry. Oh, I wish you hadn’t told me that.”
“I’m sorry, love. I can’t help but notice these things.”
“You’re a detective. You detect.” I let out a long breath. “Like she said, things aren’t what they seem.”
“Things seem hopeless,” Duke said, looking at me. “So let’s hope she’s right.”
