“Tell me about your date,” Ezzie said. Her long blonde hair swung as she walked across the room tucking her long legs under her as she sank onto my chaise.
I smiled every time I saw my chaise. It was an 1895 lounge piece with solid mahogany, hand-carved, lion-paw feet. The upholstery was a gold-on-white patterned silk velvet from 1794. Fifteen years ago my mom walked out the door leaving my dad and me shocked and a little battered. My dad had no idea what to do with a ten-year-old daughter, we both had been blindsided and heartbroken. In a truly inspired move, he made plans for us to travel to multiple continents to hunt down authentic Victorian boudoir furniture, do some father-daughter bonding, and nurse our bruised spirits back to health. My entire bedroom set had been in storage until recently, when Hitch surprised me by rescuing some of my things and letting me move them into my room at the shelter. The day I was forced to grab the things that were important to me out of our house, there was never a question that my bedroom set would come with me.
“It wasn’t a date.”
“Oh, and I found a murdered weasel on my doorstep this morning,”
Ezzie and I said at the same time. She had clearly been thinking I wasn’t going to answer her.
“What?” I asked.
“Whatever,” we replied together again.
“Okay, you first,” I said.
“There’s not much more to the story. I just found a dead weasel by our front door.”
“But you said murdered.”
“Well, he had a little noose around his neck, so I assumed he didn’t commit weasel suicide.”
“You’re kidding?” I said, feeling alarmed for her.
“Eh, someone’s probably mad at something my dad is doing at work. Calling him a weasel you know.”
“Hmmm,” I said. “You’re not scared; you don’t think it’s directed at you?”
“No, not at all,” she assured me. “Here look, I took a picture before I had Chance get rid of it.”
Chance was the Gold’s groundskeeper and in charge of their security. He was both no-nonsense and a little frightening. If Chance was on it, I guess I wouldn’t be worried either. Ezzie passed me her phone, and I looked at the three pictures she had from different angles.
“Oh, he’s kind of cute,” I said, “but that noose is creepy.”
Ezzie waved it off and then narrowed her eyes. “Spill,” she said.
“Okay, but it wasn’t a date,” I began.
Death on the Doorstep, available at Amazon
Carrin Mahmood 