Page 21 of Mad Mabel

“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.”