A Thief in the House of Memory by Tim Wynne-Jones

to the picture window to watch. The cameraman was behind the wheel, ready to go. The reporter handed Bernard a business card. He accepted it with a stiff nod. He had calmed down, but his shoulders were slumped. Dec looked back at Birdie.
    â€œDid he see the
Citizen
article?”
    â€œOh, yeah,” she said. She patted the side of her hair, found a loose strand and had to put her drink down to pin it back in place. “He had his lawyer on it right away. It seems the photographer wasn’t actually on the property, or so he claims. He climbed a tree on the river road; used a telephoto lens. There’s some dispute about whether there’s still a public right of way on the old road. I don’t know the details and, frankly Scarlet, I don’t give a damn.”
    â€œBut where’d they get all that information?”
    She took another drink. “There’s always someone in a small town with a big mouth.” She glanced at Dec and, as quickly as she looked away, he saw the question in her eyes.
    â€œYou think I talked to them?”
    She frowned, and the make-up cracked around her mouth. “I don’t know what to think,” she said. “And you don’t need to look at me like that. If you say you didn’t, that’s good enough for me. It’s just that lately you’ve been kind of…”
    â€œKind of what?”
    Her eyebrow arched. “Not exactly open, for starters.”
    Dec pulled a hassock over to the coffee table and sat down.
“I’m
not very open?” he said. “I begged you guys to talk to me about the inquest and I got the cold shoulder.”
    She topped up her drink and leaned back heavily in her chair. “You’re just spitting feathers,” she said. “Why are you so angry?”
    Dec shook his head. “So now this is my fault.”
    â€œYour father is beleaguered, Dec. That’s the word he used — beleaguered. He needs our support. Can’t you see that now is not the time for this?”
    â€œThis what?”
    â€œThis attitude, this moping around. This suspicion. You think we don’t see it? What’s it all about, anyway? Where did it come from?” She leaned forward and poked the glass table-top with her finger. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think you’ve been spending way too much time up the hill.”
    Dec went cold. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    She stirred her drink slowly with her finger. “You know what I’m saying: the House of God-damned Memories.” She shuddered. “That place gives me the creeps.” Then she looked up at Dec, looked him square in the eye. “You thinking of moving up there?”
    It was as if she had drawn a battle line in the sand. He wanted to move, all right. He wanted to stomp right out of the room and right out of Camelot and slam a few doors on the way.
    He noticed Birdie regarding him with an odd look in her eye — curious and anxious at the same time.
    â€œYou’ve been asking about Lindy,” she said.
    He nodded slowly. “What about it?”
    She looked down at the bottle of rye, her gaze wavering.
    She didn’t drink very often. He wondered if she was drunk.
    â€œIt just seemed a little peculiar after so long,” she said.
    Dec couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “She
is
my mother.”
    â€œAnd she
was
my best friend, okay? So don’t get all high and mighty on me, Declan.”
    â€œAll I did was ask Dad if she’d been in contact.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œI mean, why
now?”
She swigged her drink without taking her eyes off him. “You’ve been skulking around. I wondered if you’d been doing a little eavesdropping.”
    Skulking? Eavesdropping? “What is it I’m supposed to have heard?”
    She sighed and looked away, scratching distractedly at the skin above the top button of her blouse.