Page 20 of Mad Mabel

Peter keeps a straight face, bless him. While it’s true that the cops are around the corner, the last time someone from Kenny Lane called—the Nguyens after an aggravated break-in—they didn’t arrive for hours. In fact, they only showed their faces after Peter walked down there and threatened to callA Current Affairand say that the police were disregarding the safety and well-being of elderly citizens.

The man opens his mouth just as Joan powers into the street in her orthotic footwear, back from her walk. A younger man—perhaps the nephew—is by her side. The Stallion notices them, but it’s hard to tell if it’s their arrival or the threat of the cops that sparks his departure.

“Tell Roxanne that Shane is looking for her,” he says.

Peter and I follow him out of the street, several steps back, and look both ways to make sure he’s gone. Only when I’m sure he is do I glance toward Roxanne’s front window. Persephone’s face is gone.

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.