she couldnât find him,â Alice-Miranda said. âLying to the police will get her into a lot more trouble than if it was just an accident.â
âAnd I wouldnât want to be Caprice when Constable Derby finds out what really happened,â Millie said, standing up. âShe might get expelled or, even better, go to juvenile detention.â The girlâs green eyes lit up at the thought.
âMillie, you donât mean that,â Alice-Miranda chided. Though, she had to admit there was something awry about the whole affair. The girlâs mind raced. She had to find out the truth before Caprice dug herself in any deeper.
Vera Bird lifted the discarded newspaper and fished around for the telephone. She dialled the number and waited for the operator to connect.
âHello, Iâd like one of those kitchen wizards with all the attachments and that exercise thingamajig â the one you just have to stand on and it vibrates the pounds away. Oh, and while Iâm at it, Iâd like that set of saucepans with the bonus steamer,â she said, and reeled off the digits of her credit card. âYes, thatâs it for now. When will they arrive? Goody! Yes, itâs a post-office box.â
Vera hung up the phone and pushed herself out of the armchair, her spectacles swinging wildly on the chain around her neck. Tall pillars of boxes arranged according to their contents, which included everything from dolly tea sets to microwave ovens, televisions, a treadmill and just about any other household item you could imagine, lined the room. There was barely enough space for a walkway but there was an order to it all. The fact that she couldnât recall the last time sheâd set foot in the dining room, let alone glimpsed the table, was beside the point.
The woman walked through the maze and into the kitchen, where bundles of cutlery and piles of plates towered on every surface. There were at least sixteen boxes of brand-new saucepans in the corner, and on the stovetop, a single battered pot held the remnants of last nightâs soup.
A stack of recipe books teetered ominously on the bench while cake tins of all shapes and sizes spilled from another box on the floor. Although the house was overflowing, and Vera could barely move, it was remarkably clean. She spent countless hours wiping down the surfaces and used her cordless swivel-headed vacuum to keep the walkways clear.
Her bedroom was similarly crammed with goods, and the bathroom was almost impossible to enter these days, filled with everything from flat-pack bookshelves to cast-iron coat racks, boxes and boxes of face creams, soaps, toothpaste and enough toilet rolls to supply the entire village of Winchesterfield for at least a year or two.
Vera picked up an envelope that was sitting inside the gleaming new toaster on the bench and slid her long nail under the flap, easing it open. She slipped on her spectacles and squinted at the amount on the bottom of the page.
âThat canât be right,â she said to herself. âI donât remember spending that much last month.â She ran her finger down the list and mentally ticked off the things sheâd picked up from the post office. âHmph. Well, perhaps I did.â At least she didnât have to worry about money these days. Her investments were doing very well.
Vera walked to the corner of the room and squeezed her tiny frame between a stack of Kennel and Kibble magazines and a barbecue, retrieving a chipped cookie jar in the shape of Mickey Mouse. She unscrewed the lid and pulled out a bundle of notes. Vera peeled off the amount she needed and returned the rest to its rightful place.
Tomorrow she would drive to the village and pay the credit card bill, then sheâd pick up the new hair curlers and finally be able to try that deluxe gold-leaf curling serum sheâd bought a couple of weeks back. Or had it been a couple of years? Vera had always been a
âAnd I wouldnât want to be Caprice when Constable Derby finds out what really happened,â Millie said, standing up. âShe might get expelled or, even better, go to juvenile detention.â The girlâs green eyes lit up at the thought.
âMillie, you donât mean that,â Alice-Miranda chided. Though, she had to admit there was something awry about the whole affair. The girlâs mind raced. She had to find out the truth before Caprice dug herself in any deeper.
Vera Bird lifted the discarded newspaper and fished around for the telephone. She dialled the number and waited for the operator to connect.
âHello, Iâd like one of those kitchen wizards with all the attachments and that exercise thingamajig â the one you just have to stand on and it vibrates the pounds away. Oh, and while Iâm at it, Iâd like that set of saucepans with the bonus steamer,â she said, and reeled off the digits of her credit card. âYes, thatâs it for now. When will they arrive? Goody! Yes, itâs a post-office box.â
Vera hung up the phone and pushed herself out of the armchair, her spectacles swinging wildly on the chain around her neck. Tall pillars of boxes arranged according to their contents, which included everything from dolly tea sets to microwave ovens, televisions, a treadmill and just about any other household item you could imagine, lined the room. There was barely enough space for a walkway but there was an order to it all. The fact that she couldnât recall the last time sheâd set foot in the dining room, let alone glimpsed the table, was beside the point.
The woman walked through the maze and into the kitchen, where bundles of cutlery and piles of plates towered on every surface. There were at least sixteen boxes of brand-new saucepans in the corner, and on the stovetop, a single battered pot held the remnants of last nightâs soup.
A stack of recipe books teetered ominously on the bench while cake tins of all shapes and sizes spilled from another box on the floor. Although the house was overflowing, and Vera could barely move, it was remarkably clean. She spent countless hours wiping down the surfaces and used her cordless swivel-headed vacuum to keep the walkways clear.
Her bedroom was similarly crammed with goods, and the bathroom was almost impossible to enter these days, filled with everything from flat-pack bookshelves to cast-iron coat racks, boxes and boxes of face creams, soaps, toothpaste and enough toilet rolls to supply the entire village of Winchesterfield for at least a year or two.
Vera picked up an envelope that was sitting inside the gleaming new toaster on the bench and slid her long nail under the flap, easing it open. She slipped on her spectacles and squinted at the amount on the bottom of the page.
âThat canât be right,â she said to herself. âI donât remember spending that much last month.â She ran her finger down the list and mentally ticked off the things sheâd picked up from the post office. âHmph. Well, perhaps I did.â At least she didnât have to worry about money these days. Her investments were doing very well.
Vera walked to the corner of the room and squeezed her tiny frame between a stack of Kennel and Kibble magazines and a barbecue, retrieving a chipped cookie jar in the shape of Mickey Mouse. She unscrewed the lid and pulled out a bundle of notes. Vera peeled off the amount she needed and returned the rest to its rightful place.
Tomorrow she would drive to the village and pay the credit card bill, then sheâd pick up the new hair curlers and finally be able to try that deluxe gold-leaf curling serum sheâd bought a couple of weeks back. Or had it been a couple of years? Vera had always been a
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