Gift of the Gab by Morris Gleitzman Page B

looked at the name and address.
    Boy, was I totally and completely wrong.
    It’s a woman.

I stood by the trench in a daze, dog dribble drying on my face, staring at my notebook.
    My brain felt like stewed apple.
    I don’t remember saying goodbye to the old bloke and the dog. I was too busy getting used to what he’d just told me.
    That the person who killed Mum wasn’t the stupid, careless, hairy-knuckle cowboy hoon I’d imagined – it was a woman called Michelle Solange.
    That felt very weird.
    Michelle has always been one of my favourite names.
    I had a pet rat once called Michelle.
    Stop it, I told myself. Pull yourself together. Because it doesn’t make any difference.
    If she’s Mum’s killer, I’m going to bring her to justice. And if I can lay my hands on a decent quantity of rotting apples, I’m going to teach her car a lesson too.
    First I went back to Mum’s grave to let her know that everything’s under control.
    Then I went into town to the tourist map. I found the killer’s street. It’s on the northern edge of town.
    I was about to head over there when I remembered Dad. I’d told him I was going for a walk hours ago.
    I imagined him sitting by the window at Mr and Mrs Bernard’s, pulling threads out of the carpet and chewing them, which is what he usually does when he gets worried sick.
    Suddenly I felt really bad.
    I’d been really unfair to Dad, thinking he’d done a deal with the council and losing respect for him like that.
    He’d probably wanted to expose Mum’s killer but had been scared to in case the locals got angry and yelled at him for lowering the tone of the district. Then he’d have had the Australian embassy yelling at him for lowering the popularity of Aussie tourists in the district.
    It must be really scary, having people angry and yelling at you when that’s all your father ever did.
    Poor Dad, I thought.
    I decided not to go straight to the killer’s house.
    I decided to go to Mr and Mrs Bernard’s first and give Dad a hug.
    I wish now I hadn’t.
    At Mr and Mrs Bernard’s place the kitchen was empty. I couldn’t see Dad anywhere. I hoped he wasn’t out leading a search party.
    Then I heard voices coming from the lounge-room.
    I opened the door and stepped in.
    And froze.
    Sitting on the settee, next to Mrs Bernard, was the young woman in pink jeans. Next to her was Mr Didot. Opposite them were Mr and Mrs Rocher from the sausage shop.
    They were all staring at me.
    Every single one of them looked awkward and uncomfortable.
    I thought it must have been because they were all detectives and I’d just blown their cover as nice, concerned local citizens. Then I noticed they weren’t jumping on me and arresting me to stop me getting at Mum’s killer.
    I was confused.
    I took a step back.
    None of them moved.
    I had to find out what was going on.
    I wish now I hadn’t. I wish now I’d run out of the house and gone straight to the killer’s place.
    Instead I grabbed my notebook and wrote in big letters ‘WHO ARE YOU?’ and thrust it at the pink-jeans woman. Mrs Bernard looked at it and translated.
    The pink-jeans woman stood up and held her arms out as if she was going to hug me.
    I hadn’t expected that. I took another step back.
    The pink-jeans woman opened her mouth to speak. Mrs Bernard grabbed her arm. She said something to the woman in French. The only word I understood was Dad’s name.
    The pink-jeans woman gave me a sad, worried look and sat back down.
    Mr Didot and Mr and Mrs Rocher were giving me sad, worried looks too.
    I wanted to jump on the coffee table and scream ‘WHAT’S GOING ON?’
    As it turned out I didn’t need to.
    Mrs Bernard took my hands in hers and stroked them gently.
    â€˜Your father is upstairs,’ she said. ‘He wants to see you.’
    My brain was racing as I went upstairs. Why was everyone