Memoirs of a Garroter: Luxe paperback

Oh shite, oh shite…”
CRASH.
“Get back here, you bastards!”

I moaned, crawling deeper under my blankets and shoving my pillow over my head. What’s going on now?

I’d been flatting with my new BFF, Jo Southcombe, for the last six weeks. So far, it had mostly been awesome. Unlike the dingy flat I grew up in, Jo’s place had Edwardian features like high ceilings, picture rails, and beautiful
fireplaces, as well as decent heating, comfortable furniture that didn’t smell faintly like the rubbish tip, and a coffee machine that I would marry if humans and inanimate objects were allowed to wed.

It was also pretty cool to come home at the end of the day to a glass of wine and a friendly face. Especially after all the extra work I’d been doing at Nevermore Bookshop. Not only was looking after my three boyfriends Heathcliff, Morrie, and Quoth a full-time job, but I’d decided to forge ahead with a program of events to bring more business into the shop. I’d lined up the next three months with author visits, art exhibitions, local history talks, and even a ghost hunting tour. It was super exciting and heaps of fun, but also a ton of extra work. Jo was great at listening to my tales of woe and offering advice.

But Jo was also… unique. She was the county pathologist, which meant that a) she worked all hours of the day and night, so sometimes she wanted to share that bottle of wine at three a.m., and b) she fi
lled her home with the oddest collection of strange and macabre things. The other day I opened the fridge for a snack and found three Petri dishes of bacteria sitting on the bottom shelf. Then there was the anatomical skeleton behind the shower curtain (The
first time I met ‘Barry’ I got such a fright, I tripped over the edge of the bath and smashed the bottle of Britney Spears’ perfume I purchased ‘ironically’ but secretly loved), and the doorbell that played Monty Python’s ‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life’ whenever someone called in. Last week, she started a project studying forensic entomology and set up a shelf in the living room containing several jars
filled with dead mice and various alive and very disgusting flies, ants, wasps, beetles, and locusts.

Another crash sounded from down the hall. Sighing, I threw off the covers, pulled on an oversized Iron Maiden hoodie, and peeked my head out the door.

“Jo, what’s wrong?”
My flatmate danced around the living room, slapping at the air. I squinted into the dim light. What’s she up to now?

“Are you learning some kind of hunter-gatherer mourning dance off Youtube again, because I think it needs work-” my words died on my lips as I noticed small objects darting around Jo’s head. Are those insects? Don’t tell me she let her science experiment escape…

My gaze fell to the floor at Jo’s feet, where pieces of glass scattered across the rug. Please don’t let that be the South American fi
re ants—

“Argh!” I yelped and leapt back as something large and black dived at my face. The bug zoomed past me and slammed into the door, where it hung around, admiring the view. “Kill it! Kill it!” Jo screamed.

I grabbed the nearest object – a replica Egyptian canopic jar – and swung. The ceramic vessel shattered into pieces, and the black insect darted down the hallway, completely unscathed.

“What was that?” I demanded, watching it flit across her portrait of Sir Bernard Spilsbury (he was the father of forensics, so I discovered in a forty-
five minute impromptu lecture after I’d innocently asked Jo about it the other day).

“It’s a locust! I accidentally knocked the jar and it smashed and now they’re all over the apartment.” Jo swung an anatomy textbook at the wall. She left out a satisfi
ed “Yah!” as she connected with her target, leaving an ugly brown smudge along the paint as she drew back and swung again.

“You’re telling me the flat is crawling with locusts?” I ducked as another angry insect dove at my head.

“It’s less crawling, and more swarming!”

I covered my head with my arms and ducked into the kitchen. Locusts flew around the room like a whirlwind, pinging off the windows and diving at the dirty dishes stacked in the sink. In seconds, they reduced the herb garden on the windowsill to a bare dirt patch.

I fumbled under the sink, barely able to read the labels on the cleaning products. My
fingers closed around an aerosol can. Fly spray.

By all the goddesses, let this work.

“Go back to Egypt, you poxy bastards!” I yelled, aiming the can at the swarming bugs and slamming my fi
nger down.

A stream of white liquid shot out from the nozzle. I swung my arm around, laughing maniacally as I coated the insects. Take that, you grotty little wankers—

“Oh no, that’s cooking spray!” Jo yelled.

What? Shite.

I lowered my arm just as a huge jet shot from the nozzle and hit the wall behind the stove. Oily bubbles exploded all over the kitchen, coating the floor and the walls and Jo’s Victorian apothecary set and Jo and also me in a layer of slick, sticky oil.

“I’m sorry,” I moaned, turning the can around to read the label. How had I missed the words ‘Non-Stick Cooking Spray’ in huge letters?

Probably because I’m going blind, that’s how.

“We’ve just made them angry.” Jo ducked as a dark swarm careened toward her head. She crawled across the floor and grabbed the front door knob. “Hurry, Mina!”

I scrambled after Jo as she yanked open the door and dived down the steps. I slammed the door shut behind us, wincing as locusts dive-bombed the stained glass window.

Icy wind whipped around my bare legs. My feet sank into freezing snow. I hugged my hoodie to my chest. “I’m sorry. I thought it was bug spray.”

“Nope,” Jo wiped a smear of oil from her cheek. “Defi
nitely not bug spray. If it’s any consolation, I’m sorry I broke that jar and set a swarm of locusts free in our flat.”

I waved a hand. “I’m sure it happens all the time. What are we going to do?”

Jo raised an eyebrow. “I was thinking of just giving them the house?”

I couldn’t feel my feet. “Or we could maybe call an exterminator?”

“I guess that would work.” Jo glanced at her watch. “Oh, shite. I have to go. I’m late for work, and Cal will be waiting for me to prep the body.” She scrambled in her pocket for her car keys.

“You can’t just leave. What if the locusts get out? How am I going to get to my room? I need clothes.” I gestured to my bare legs, now turning a bold shade of blue.

Jo shrugged. “I have no idea. I’ve got some old clothes in the back of the car. You can change while I drive you to the bookshop, if you like. It’s not as if those guys aren’t used to seeing you without your clothes on.”

“But all our stuff—”

She flung open her car door and climbed in behind the wheel. “Forget the flat. We’ll raze it to the ground, salt the earth, and get another one. With a hot tub and one of those multi-head showers. Come on, Mina. I’ve got a dead body to cut up, and you’ve got three hot guys ready to fan you with palm fronds and serve you peeled grapes. What’s it to be?”

Sighing, I pulled the hem of my hoodie down over my arse and climbed into the car beside Jo. “I thought living with you would save me from chaos and mayhem, not invite it.”

“You can’t be right all the time,” Jo said as she sped off. “Look on the bright side. At least it was locusts and not another dead body.”

I groaned. She had no idea how right she was. Just before Christmas, I’d been a guest at the Argleton Jane Austen Experience, where two people were killed. That was on top of the other murders I’d been involved in – my ex-best friend Ashley, and members of the Argleton Banned Book Club. If I never see another dead body, it’ll be too soon.

Relax, I told myself as I fumbled in the junk behind Jo’s seat for some clothes I could wear. All I’ve got to look forward to this week is a book signing, a writer’s workshop, and some sexy times with the guys. It’s not as if any murderers are going to be in attendance.

Right?

Nevermore Bookshop Mysteries
Book 1 - A Dead and Stormy Night
Book 2 - Of Mice and Murder
Book 3 - Pride and Premeditation
Book 4 - Memoirs of a Garroter
Book 5 - Prose and Cons
Book 6 - A Novel Way to Die
Book 7 - Much Ado About Murder
Book 8 - Crime and Publishing
Book 9 - Plot and Bothered
Novella - How Heathcliff Stole Christmas