29

It was lunchtime now, so Mick headed to the Sunny Café. Spruce was busy cooking up eight breakfasts for some hikers who’d stopped by on their way to Gregory’s Gorge. They were busy planning their route on a big map they’d spread across two tables. Spruce normally stopped cooking breakfast at ten o’clock, but his rules were always pliable, especially if there was coin involved.

When Spruce finally had a second to spare, he came over to Mick’s table and took his order. At first he had his order book in his left hand and his pen in his right, but he put them away.

“The usual?”

“One Mick Special, please.”

Mick’s visits to the Sunny Café had always gone contrary to his thriftiness. For one thing, it was cheaper to make his lunch at home. A loaf of bread, some butter, some cheese, and maybe a slice of ham or two. That could save you a fortune. Then again, could he even call himself a spendthrift any longer? What kind of self-respecting spendthrift gave up his job to become a damned sleuth?

This particular admonishment kept appearing in his thoughts from time to time lately, but he did his best to ignore it. Parts of this whole enterprise felt wrong, sure. Living on his savings went against his nature, like asking a bear to start eating salads. At the same time, he couldn’t think of a single decision in his life that seemed to fit so well. The sleuthing class was his. He just knew it. People said that there was a class for everyone, and Mick didn’t usually agree with such generalized statements, but maybe there was something to it.

“Here you go, my friend. One Mick Special.”

After Spruce placed the burger, a side of fried potatoes, and an oat milk coffee on the table in front of him, the pair of them had a chat about the key, and how he thought Mr. Leabrook had left it. Spruce was a little distracted; rumor was that a health inspector was doing the rounds in this part of Easterly. Those people would turn up unannounced and act like a regular customer, so you always had to be alert.

“You keep your kitchen clean. What’s the problem?” asked Mick.

“These people. Some of ‘em, they’re not here to evaluate fairly, but to look for faults. They’ve got quotas, you see. They have to fail a certain number of restaurants each month.”

“That sounds almost like a conspiracy.”

“Some of those turn out to be right, though, don’t they? Didn’t I say that the new beer glasses Alec bought were ever so slightly smaller, but he charged the same price for a beer? And what happened when Jack Cooper got his measuring tape out?”

“Even so, the inspectors can’t see problems that aren’t there. Stop worrying.”

Mick was all too aware that saying ‘stop worrying’ to a fella who was worrying was about as effective as telling someone to calm down when they were worked up. Trying to put out a fire using hot oil came to mind. Still, Spruce seemed to ease just a little.

“Maybe you’re right. My kitchen counters, you can see your own reflection in them.”

“That’s the spirit.”

The café door opened, and in walked Phil Brownhill and Jester Hugill. Spruce got to his feet, reaching behind him to make sure his chef’s apron was tied tight.

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“Morning, gents!”

“I better be going,” Mick told him, reaching into his coin pouch and placing the price of a Mick Special plus tip on the table. Then, as he left, he nodded to Phil and Jester.

“Ahoy there, Mick” said Phil, holding the door open for him.

With his belly nicely full, Mick made his way to Mr. Leabrook’s office. If spendthriftiness were a class, then Mick could count himself as an apprentice in the face of Mr. Leabrook’s mastery. The guy would have billed his potted plants for sunlight, if he could. As such, his office was as sparse as you could get. White walls and a white ceiling, chosen so he could buy the cheapest, simplest paint if they ever needed touching up. A desk that he’d salvaged from Sunhampton school when they bought new ones. The guy even dried out his teabags and reused them. That alone ought to have been an arrestable offense, but alas, Mick didn’t make the laws, only upheld them.

Mr. Leabrook wasn’t around today. On his desk, though, right next to a coffee cup, was a note addressed to Mick.

‘Well done, Mr. Mulroon. Since you’re here, why don’t you go take a look on Bishop’s Way? Perhaps at number twelve?’

Now just what the devil was going on here? Did Mr. Leabrook think Mick was still working for him? Were there crates of junk that needed moving from the address on Bishop’s Way?

No, think horses, not zebras, he told himself. This had to be about the key.

Bishop’s Way wasn’t named after anything religious. It was in honor of Kelly Bishop, an artist who made a name for herself painting Sunhampton landscapes. That was perhaps a little generous; she hadn’t been well known in Easterly as a whole, but in a town like this, anyone who managed to get a painting or two displayed in a gallery was something of a celebrity. Ma actually had a Bishop work hanging in her bedroom. ‘Moonlight on the ‘hampton Hills,’ it was called. Kelly Bishop always hid her pet dog in her works, though Mick and Ma had never been able to spot it in this painting.

Number twelve Bishop’s Way looked like it used to be a store of some kind. He couldn’t remember anyone ever running a shop from there, but there was a strip of timber above the storefront window that might once have been where a name would be painted. The windows were beyond dirty. If the place had been on Coiner’s Way, looking like it did, Mr. Leabrook would have written up at least ten violations against the owner.

When he tried the black key in the door lock, it resisted at first, then gave way. When he pushed it open and stepped inside, he was hit with the smell of dust. He backed away a moment, worried about his allergies. Covering his mouth and nose with his sleeve, he set about opening the windows to let some fresh air in.

“Alright. Let’s see what we have here.”

If it had in fact used to be a store, then any trace was long gone. No sales counter, no shelves. The only furniture in there was an oak desk and a chair. On the desk, though, was yet another note.

To Mick,

I thought that as a new sleuth and the town’s head guard, you ought to have a proper office. This isn’t much, admittedly, and I’ll have to insist that you clean it up yourself; I certainly wasn’t going to do it. But the rent is paid up for a full year. Call it a leaving present, for the many years of service you have given me. Frank Bullbrooke is your new landlord, though you won’t see much of him, busy as he is.

Well done, Mick, and I wish you all the luck in Easterly in your endeavors.

Sincerely,

Mr. Leabrook

Mick dabbed his eyes with his sleeve. Was it his allergies making him tear up a little? Or was it an unexpected gesture coming from an even more unexpected source? Mick could get sentimental, at times. No point hiding it. When he’d seen Ophelia’s play, he’d welled up a little when the brother and sister were reunited at the end.

He just couldn’t believe Mr. Leabrook had done this for him. All this time, had he gotten the guy all wrong? He hated the idea he’d pinned a label on a person who didn’t deserve it.

He pulled out the chair and sat behind the desk. It made him feel proud, sitting there. He tapped out a happy rhythm on the desk with his fingers. My own sleuthing office. I can hardly believe it.

Not that he’d really considered it, but now, there was no backing out. He’d quit his job, gotten his sleuthing tokens so he could earn his skill trees, and he had his very own place to work from.

All he needed now was to get cracking on some mysteries.