Part 18 (1/2)
”Mom says h.e.l.lo.”
”That's nice.”
”Don't you want to say h.e.l.lo back?”
Oh, h.e.l.l. He expected me to talk to her!
”Er ... h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Holmeier,” I said, forcing myself to talk to the headstone.
”Mom says no formalities around here. Her name is Miriam.”
”h.e.l.lo, Miriam.”
”But she likes to be called Mimsy.”
I forced a smile and said, ”h.e.l.lo, Mimsy.”
”So what do you think, Mom?” Skip asked his dead mother. ”Isn't she a peach?”
He c.o.c.ked an ear, listening to Mimsy from beyond the grave.
”She says you're very sweet.”
”How nice.”
He looked at me expectantly. Dammit. He was waiting for me to talk to her again.
”Er ... thank you, Mimsy,” I said, shooting the headstone a dopey grin.
”Well,” Skip said, ”now that you've met Mom, it's time you said h.e.l.lo to Miss Marple.”
”Miss Marple's here, too??”
”She sure is. Check out the headstone next to Mom's.”
I looked at the neighboring headstone, and sure enough, it read:
JANE MARPLE HOLMEIER.
BELOVED COMPANION TO SKIP HOLMEIER.
”OUR LOVE IS HERE TO STAY”
I gawked at it in disbelief.
”But you're not allowed to bury pets in a human cemetery.”
”You pay the right people enough money,” he said with a wink, ”and you can do anything. Anyhow, Miss Marple asks if you'd mind moving just a tad. You're sitting on her tail.”
I jumped up, as if I really had been sitting on her tail.
The guy had me practically believing this nonsense.
”So what do you think of my Jaine, Miss Marple?” He c.o.c.ked his ear toward Miss Marple's grave. ”Omigos.h.!.+” he said, turning to me. ”Can you hear that?”
”Hear what?”
”She's purring. That means she really likes you.”
And on that good news, he grinned and said, ”Let's eat!”
Smacking his lips, he opened the picnic basket and started taking out our lunch from culinary h.e.l.l: pieces of cardboard posing as crackers, slabs of rubber posing as nonfat cheese, and a viscous white glob of what turned out to be goat yogurt, topped with sunflower seeds.
To wash it all down, he broke out a bottle of vintage celery tonic.
Somewhere in my mouth, my taste buds were playing taps.
And then a miracle happened. Skip reached into the basket and took out a humungous sandwich on a plate, covered with saran wrap.
”What's that?” I asked, my taste buds suddenly jolted awake.
”Egg salad sandwich with bacon,” Skip replied.
”Looks dee-lish,” I said, reaching for the plate. ”Don't mind if I have a bite.”
”Oh, no!” he said, s.n.a.t.c.hing the plate away from me. ”The sandwich is for Mom. It's her favorite. All this cholesterol is what put her in her grave. It can't hurt her now, though,” he said, laying the plate at the base of the gravestone.
”You think she'd mind if I took a tiny bite?” I asked.
”No, not at all. But I would,” he said, swatting away my hand. ”I can't have you clogging your arteries with cholesterol.”
I can't tell you what torture it was sitting there, gnawing at those cardboard crackers and rubber cheese, Mimsy's egg salad sandwich just inches from my grasp. It was all I could do not to leap over and nab it.
But somehow I refrained.
The meal flew by in a volley of questions from Mimsy and Miss Marple-as relayed by Skip-about my education, my hobbies, my background, as well as my favorite authors, movies, and cat foods.
Apparently I pa.s.sed the test.