Page 30 of Mad Mabel

“Going undercover,” she’d said, tapping her nose like she was MI5.

God love her. I don’t know where I’d be without her in my corner.

There’s a long sigh from the other end of the line. Then: “Hold, please.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly gave myself a migraine. I can’t believe this is happening. Ishaan’s death was thedefinitionof an expected death. Case in point: A bloody seven-year-old was the one to call it! And yet, part of me knows that nothing can be done. The court of public opinion has handed down its verdict. Again.

We’d called the police first. It seemed the sensible place to start to find out what could be done, if anything, about the gross miscarriage of justice that had been delivered in the headline of that article. We encountered a slight issue with the receptionist when we couldn’t remember Hairy’s or Baldy’s actual names, so after being passed around from pillar to post, I ended up speaking to an idiot named Greg.

“What I want to know,” I’d said to Greg, after he’d introduced himself, “is if the death is suspicious.”

“Sorry?” he said. “Which death?”

“Ishaan’s death. The headline in the article I read called it a suspicious death. So I want to know how you define suspicious.”

“You’re inquiring about the death of Ishaan Patel?”

“Keep up, Charlie.”

“Greg.”

“It was an expression,” I said. Told you Greg was an idiot.

“Well,” Greg said, “it is still an open investigation at this point, so I can’t really say if it’s suspicious.”

“And yetsomeonedid say. To the media. How else would they have known that I was Ishaan’s neighbor? And that he was my nemesis!”

“She’s got you there,” Daphne said.

I’ll admit, I was feeling rather good at that point, especially when Greg put me on hold to see what he could find out. When he returned, though, he had nothing. “Ms. Fitzpatrick, I’ve spoken to the detectives on this case, and they have assured me that they have not spoken to the media.”

“Then how did the media get this information?”

“I couldn’t say. A member of the public may have reported something. A neighbor, perhaps?”

Joan, I realized. It was Joan. “I’m going to kill her.”

“Pardon?” Greg said.

Daphne snatched the phone out of my hand. “Gotta go, Greg,” she said, and ended the call.

“Kill her later,” she said. “First, we need legal advice.”

Which led us to this call.

We found the law firm, BrennanWhiteMcDonald, in the Yellow Pages. When I explained my predicament to the receptionist, she’d made her boredom patently clear through her nonverbal language—the long pauses, the sighs, the length at which she forced me tolisten to their in-house ad for their own legal firm. When I am finally connected to a fourth girly, she is equally rude and disinterested until I mention my name. Or, rather, use the name Mad Mabel Waller.

“Mad Mabel Waller,” she repeats, her voice dripping in disbelief. In the background I can hear the thwack of her long fingernails against the plastic-coated desk. “Youare Mad Mabel Waller?”

“Yes.”

I sound huffy, which annoys me. There’s so little dignity in being huffy. And yet, if people don’t listen, that’s how I end up.

The fingernails cease their thwacking on the desk. “Just a moment.”

A few seconds later, I’m finally greeted by a fifth girly, who sounds like she is paid more than fifteen dollars per hour.

“Good afternoon, this is Senior Partner Linda Raiti.”