The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2422 by Angharad Copyright© 2014 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

At breakfast the next morning Julie asked me, “You don’t think that Stone woman was TS at all, do you?”

“No.”

“So what is her game then?”

“I don’t know, but I aim to find out.”

“How?”

“If I can get a picture of her, James might be able to do something.”

“I thought you said you were going to do something?”

“I am, employing James. I have no idea what the kids are doing let alone complete strangers.”

“I wonder if she’ll show up at the salon again.”

“I doubt it, Jules, unless she’s dumber than we thought or thinks you are.”

“Why would she think I’m dumb?” asked Julie.

“Because she’s perceptive, perhaps,” fired Phoebe advancing towards the table with a coffee.

“Huh? I thought you were supposed to be on my side, girl solidarity and all that,” complained the older sibling.

“I’m not the one who loaned that old biddy a tenner to get home—I’ll bet she hasn’t returned with the money, has she?”

“She will, you watch.”

“I doubt it, then she’ll pretend she forgot. Honestly, some of these old biddies are worse than organised crime.” Phoebe had a bit of a problem with old ladies by the sound of it.

“Did you see this Stone woman?” I asked.

“A stone woman, like a sculpture?”

“No, someone who said her name was Sharon Stone.”

“Who’s Sharon Stone?”

“The ‘Merican actress who flashed her muff in Basic Instinct.”

“What’s a muff, Mummy?” asked Trish.

“Apart from something to keep your hands warm, I think perhaps your sister would like to explain,” I smiled Julie and sat back to enjoy the payback for her vulgarity.

“It’s slang.” She was blushing profusely and Phoebe smirked.

“Yeah and...” Trish bated her.

“It’s girly bits, all right?”

“What like beaver?” asked Trish disingenuously.

“I think that’s enough of such language at the breakfast table, don’t you?” I suspected that Trish already knew the term but was using it to tease Julie, who falls for it all the time.

Julie and Phoebe went off to the salon and I cleared up the breakfast dishes and put the washer on. Then it was time to call James. “Oh great goddess of the pudden race.”

“That’s a misquotation about a haggis, should be, ‘Great chieftain o’ the puddin-race.”

“Goodness, a Scot who knows her Burns.”

“Ah, if I did a BA, a MA, and PhD in Scottish poetry, would that constitute third degree burns?”

“Could I suppose, I’ve heard the one about the burn’s unit.”

“So have I several times, especially on Burns’ night after Daddy has had a few single malts.”

“Too peaty for me, prefer blended.”

“I don’t like any of them, can’t stand the smell let alone the taste.”

“What, it’s Scottish nectar.”

“It might be to you, not me. Anyway, I suspect you were about to ask me why I was calling.”

“It was to be the next thing I said, dear lady.”

“Dear? You’re the expensive one.”

“One’s talents have to be reflected in one’s fees.”

“I suspect you overcharge me regularly.”

“My heart bleeds at your scorn, dear lady,” James should have been an actor—doing farce. For the next ten or fifteen minutes I filled him on things as I knew them and he sounded rather surprised. “What is she after?”

“If I knew that I could save your fees, so be grateful for small mercies.”

“I am, great chieftain—can you have a woman chieftain?”

“Don’t see why not,” I replied despite being far from convinced.

“Just checking, boss.”

I had agreed to see if there were any photos of our mysterious visitor, once Tom had explained where it was kept and how I could extract the frame I wanted. I took Trish with me and between us we just about managed to do what was required and I carried tenderly the image we’d recovered. Thankfully, I’d placed it in one of those plastic pockets because it was peeing down as we left there.

The weather had lost its summer feeling, the hot sunshine being replaced with squally showers as hurricane something or other, deposited bits of the Caribbean on top of us. It had taken on a distinctly autumnal feel.

I emailed the image from work but just in case it hadn’t worked, I’d also emailed home and we had the picture as a further back up. It seemed unlikely the email had failed, but with my luck lately, I wasn’t taking chances. Back at home, I had a confirmation from James that it had been received. I could now relax, especially as Hilary had fed the dormice, which Trish enjoyed seeing. Some of them were far tamer than they were supposed to be and I had to decide if we released them or kept them over the winter. That was always a tricky question depending upon the weather we had and skill of the dormouse in surviving. Trish had offered to run classes in nest building for them—yeah, she was in that sort of mood.

We hadn’t received any notice from Jason that the court had lifted its restriction on travel, so we couldn’t start packing. However, we grabbed a few bits and pieces on the way home just in case he said we could go.

Simon emailed him after lunch and we waited for a response. There was none, so Si sent him a text. Still no response. Si phoned his office and one of his juniors answered. Jason was abroad representing the UK government versus the EU. That was how he made most of his money, not fiddling with tiny cases like ours. He did that when things were quiet or as a favour to Simon, who he’d known for years.

His underling was a little evasive and we suspected he should have done something about our case and had forgotten or messed it up. Jason would be back that night and we left a message for him to call us. He apparently had forgotten to ask his staff to approach the court. Jason would now have to find a judge who’d was prepared to see him on a Sunday. That would be quite a challenge in itself, then to get him to find in our favour, was another.