Chapter 13
The next morning is quiet. Peaceful. I’m reading the newspaper.
Daphne is padding about the house in her lime-green slippers, humming something tuneless.
The air smells faintly of crumpets and honey.
It would have been close to perfect if Nugget—the freeloading menace—hadn’t taken up residence next to my feet.
Honest to God, if Ishaan wasn’t already dead, I’d murder him for bequeathing me that snarling footstool.
She growls at me whenever I so much as adjust my blanket.
Daphne has just put the kettle on and I’m eyeing a second crumpet when the doorbell rings.
Nugget lets out a low, suspicious growl.
I glance at Daphne, whose eyebrows shoot up with barely contained glee.
For pity’s sake. It doesn’t take much to excite that woman—yesterday she practically hyperventilated over a catalogue from Spotlight.
But I’ll admit, when I open the door, I feel it too.
That little jolt. Because standing there on my porch are the policemen. Baldy and Hairy.
“Praise Jesus! You’re here for the dog.”
Beside me, Nugget whines, as if she’s understood. Daphne appears in the corridor behind us, resplendent today, in a rainbow crocheted cardigan and lime-green slacks.
“Actually, no,” Hairy says. He doesn’t even seem apologetic. “Not about the dog. We’re here about—”
“Oh!” I say. “The Italian Stallion?”
A pause. “The what?”
“Shifty type, hanging around the street? Asking about who lives here?”
“Likely a perve,” Daphne adds. “You should send a squad car.”
Hairy and Baldy exchange a look. “Can we come inside?”
“Of course!” Daphne says.
“You don’t mind if Daphne stays, do you?” I ask.
Baldy reaches down to pat Nugget’s head. “Not in the least.”
I stand back from the door and the policemen come inside.
Daphne walks ahead of us and gets mugs out of the cupboard, as if the church ladies have arrived for morning tea.
Nugget remains right under my feet. It occurs to me, not for the first time, that she’s being guided by Ishaan from beyond the grave, his mission to ensure I have a nasty fall.
“Tea?” I offer.
“Sure,” says Baldy.
“We have English Breakfast,” Daphne says eagerly, “or peppermint. I like Lady Grey, personally.”
When Baldy doesn’t reply, I raise my eyebrows.
“Oh … uh, white with one, please.”
“Nothing for me,” says Hairy.
I direct them to my round table and they take a seat while Daphne and I make the tea.
“White with one,” I say, putting a mug in front of Baldy. I sit at the third chair of the table, Daphne sits at the fourth. Nugget, the presumptuous little ferret, sits on her lap. “What can I do for you?”
“Firstly,” Hairy says, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
It takes me a moment to realize they’re talking about Ishaan. “Oh, Ishaan isn’t a loss. The contrary, to be honest. It’s my gain. I disliked him intensely.”
“Elsie,” Daphne says in a warning voice.
“I did. He was a miserable old bastard. Always had been. But after his partner, Jim, died, he got that awful dog and our relationship declined from there.”
Baldy’s eyebrows—which are cruelly thick and full—rise. “How did the relationship decline?”
“How do you think? The man had no business having an animal. He could barely take care of himself. Nugget barked from dawn to dusk, disrupting the neighborhood. And because Ishaan was too old to walk her, he just opened the door and let her terrorize the street! Can you imagine? She was always crapping in my front garden. Near the roses! I’m not a fancy woman, but I am proud of my roses and I can do without stepping on dog turds while I’m pruning. ”
“You’re a twit of a woman,” Daphne says under her breath. I ignore her. I’m quite enjoying my little trip down memory lane.
“So you and Ishaan would … argue?” Hairy says, sitting forward.
“If by ‘argue’ you mean throwing feces back and forth over the fence, yes.”
“You threw feces …”
“The dog’s feces, obviously,” I explain. “It was in a poop bag, I’m not an animal. Whenever I came across one of her turds, I lobbed it over the fence at Ishaan. That’s not a crime, is it?”
I get the sense from the way the policemen look at each other that they aren’t sure. For pity’s sake.
“So Ishaan was your nemesis?” Hairy says slowly. “And yet, you were the one who went in search of him? Why was that?”
“I was trying to get out of being interviewed by the precocious child across the road! She’s a monster, really and truly. She wanted to speak to someone old. Ishaan doesn’t have a lot on me, but when it comes to age, he pips me.” I hesitate. “Well. He did.”
They are quiet for a moment, then Hairy says: “Is it true, Ms. Fitzpatrick, that you threatened to kill Ishaan prior to his death?”
“I most certainly did not,” I say, appalled. “Who told you that?”
“I’d have to check my notes.”
“Do that,” I say, indignant. “Anyone who knows me knows that if I was going to kill him, I’d never forewarn him.”
Not so much as a smirk.
“What do you think happened to Ishaan, Ms. Fitzpatrick?” Baldy says, adopting a patronizing, kindly voice.
It feels like a remarkably ridiculous question. “I think he got dicked by the dangling dong of destiny, that’s what I think.”
Baldy and Hairy blink at me. I’m vaguely reminded of Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Daphne laughs so hard a little fart slips out.
“I mean, I think his time was up,” I say. “He was ninety-three years old, gentlemen.”
Baldy lets out a long sigh. Hairy sits back in his chair.
“Constables,” I say, “I understand that you need to dot your i’s and cross your t’s, but is this going to take long? Daphne and I have dinner plans.”
I avoid Daphne’s gaze. We never go out of an evening.
“I think that’s all we need for today,” Baldy says.
I nod, trying not to overthink the “for today” part.
“Oh, one more thing,” Hairy says as they stand. “We’ll need your shoe.”
“My shoe?”
“What on earth do you need her shoe for?” Daphne cries.
“You were wearing it when you found Ishaan, correct?”
“Of course. Both of them.”
“I’m told there was some blood on one of your shoes. Given the blood, it’s considered evidence,” he continues, dragging what looks like a plastic ziplock bag from his satchel.
“The blood was from a scratch on my leg, for pity’s sake!”
I look down at my shoes. It had only been a drop or two and it was now almost imperceptible against the navy canvas, at least with my eyesight.
“Still,” Baldy says. “We need to take it.”
“Will I get it back?” I ask.
“They’re a nice pair of shoes!” Daphne adds. “Homypeds are they, Else?”
“They’re my favorites. Got them in the Boxing Day sales at Harris Scarfe,” I say. “Wear them every day.”
Again, the police do not look apologetic. Clearly neither of them has suffered through the Boxing Day sales.
“Well,” I say, sitting on the chair, “you may as well take them both. Not a lot of use to me without the other.”
I reach toward my shoe, to remove it, but Hairy intercepts me.
“Allow me,” he says, and then puts on gloves.
Despite my insistence he take both, he only takes the right and drops it into the bag.
The indignity of sitting there while he does it is nearly as bad as then leading them back down my hallway, wearing one shoe only.
“I did wonder,” Baldy says, the moment before I open the door, “what had become of you. I think most people expected you would have started a new life. I never would have thought you’d still be right here in Melbourne.”
With Nugget at my heels, my hand freezes, halfway to the door.
“I suppose you did change your name,” Hairy says. “Then again, you couldn’t just go around calling yourself Mad Mabel, could you?”
They chuckle. When I don’t join them, their smiles fade away. “For the record, I never went around calling myself that,” I say.
They blink, glance around. “Yes. Right. Fair enough. We better go then.” Suddenly they are in a hurry to leave. “Bye, Ms. Fitzpatrick. Bye, Daphne.”
Once again, they leave without the dog.