Page 28 of Mad Mabel

The sight of her, small and sorry and blinking back tears, injures something in me. I want to make it better, but I can’t. I’m too ashamed. Too sad. Funnily enough it’s that exact shame and grief she just saw in that room, boxed up and gathering dust.

In any case, even if I could have explained, I wouldn’t have been fast enough. Because Persephone has already darted out the door, taking my arrowroot biscuits with her.

17

Iused to be an early riser. In my younger years, my body would spring to life at 6AMlike a Labrador pup at mealtime. These days, it doesn’t so much spring as it negotiates. And it doesn’t start negotiating until at least eight o’clock, when it shuffles into the kitchen for a cup of tea, then shuffles straight back to bed to drink it like a civilized pensioner.

But not today. Today, I’m ripped from slumber at 7:30AMby someone pounding on my front door like they’re trying to sell me a Bible.

After a momentary leap of fright, I settle back against the pillows. One didn’t need to be Poirot to figure out who it was.

“Go away, Persephone, you irritating little despot!”

I’d slept fitfully the night before. It had been difficult to get back to sleep after an upsetting dream about Joan, Peter, Cess and Ness, and the Italian Stallion. In my dream I sat in a room with them—all of them—while they interviewed me for the tell-all:Mad Mabel: InHer Own Words. But then the room became a courtroom, and all of them morphed into jurors as my sentence was being handed down and I was crying out for my mother who I couldn’t find anywhere.

The fist pounds against the door again and I wait for Persephone’s indignant little face to appear at my window. She wouldn’t see much through my sheers but she’d see enough to know I was awake. I make a mental note to tell her that waking up yourbestieat the crack of dawn is a surefire way to keep you friendless. I may not be a great citizen, but I can offer her this public service.

But no face appears at the window.

“Ms. Fitzpatrick?”

I sit up straight. Not what I was expecting. The voice is unusually deep, like a radio presenter on a smutty channel, which rules out Persephone. I wonder, suddenly, if it could be the police? Perhaps someone in the neighborhood was burgled overnight and the police are “canvassing the area”? If that’s the case, I’ll send them to Joan’s house. Joan is hard of hearing and unlikely to have heard anything, but she’ll welcome their visit so she can mention that her nephew is a partner in a law firm.

“Just a minute,” I call out, wrapping my toweling dressing gown around my midsection. It’s full length, which means it barely covers my knees. I briefly check my reflection in the hall mirror on the way to the door and I’m delighted to find I look terrifying. My hair is sticking up at odd angles and the left side of my face has settled deep into its grooves after eight hours of sleeping on that side. Since about the age of seventy, it might be noon before my face starts to look vaguely symmetrical.

“Adeem Anand.” The young man on my doorstep extends his hand like a gun.

He’s younger than I expected, given the depth of his voice. Bythe look of him I’d say he is twentysomething. He’s stocky and prematurely balding, but well-endowed in the eyebrow area, as if two fat caterpillars have taken up residence on his forehead. There is a pretty, nondescript blond woman by his side who looks to be similarly aged.

He waits. When I don’t take his hand, his bravado falters. “Uh… This is my colleague Libby Conquest.” He nods in her direction. “Are you Elsie Fitzpatrick?”

“Why should I tell you?”

Adeem Anand glances at his counterpart. She doesn’t quite roll her eyes, but her facial expression conveys the effect.

“Ms. Fitzpatrick,” she says, “Adeem and I host a YouTube channel—AdLib. Have you heard of YouTube?”

“Of course,” I snap. It’s not a lie. I’ve heard of it. Couldn’t tell you how it works, or what it’s used for, but that wasn’t her question.

“Great,” she says. “Well, we have a channel on there where we dig into old crimes and we thought—”

I blame the early hour for my slowness.Old crimes.I try to shut the front door but Adeem blocks it with a meaty arm. “Ms. Fitzpatrick. We’d like to cover your side of the story.Sympathetically.”

“If you don’t let me shut this I’ll scream,” I say, even though I doubt my scream has much heft to it these days. If Persephone was here I’d get her to scream for me. The little barbarian has quite the set of lungs. It occurs to me that it’s the first time I’ve wanted the child around.

“Ads, for God’s sake, get your arm off the door.” Libby smacks at his arm with all the energy of a frustrated older sister. Adeem releases the door, immediately contrite.

I find myself disarmed by Libby’s interruption, so although Adeem has removed his arm from the door, I don’t close it right away.

Libby takes advantage of my hesitation. “I apologize for Adeem, Ms. Fitzpatrick.”

“I imagine you have to do that quite a lot,” I reply.

“You have no idea.”

“Hey—” he starts, but Libby silences him with a little hand gesture, closing her palm like the conductor of an orchestra. It’s impressive. I make a mental note to try it with Persephone.

“How did you find me?” I ask.