The code breakers secret, p.15
Mouse in the House, page 15
A MAGICAL MOUSE CAPER
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Fine Skylark Media, P.O. Box 1505
Lake Forest, California 92609-1505
Mouse in the House: A Magical Mouse Caper
Copyright © 2023 DeAnna Drake
ISBN: 978-1-957691-01-5
All rights reserved.
www.DeAnnaDrake.com
DeAnna@DeAnnaDrake.com
Cover designed by Sleepy Fox Studio.
Interior illustrations created in Midjourney by Merrie Destefano. Interior design also by Merrie Destefano.
CONTENTS
Mouse In The House
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Thank You
About the Author
Other Books by the Author
Author’s Note & Acknowledgments
To Skye, the newest critter in our family
MOUSE IN THE HOUSE
BY DEANNA DRAKE
This house mouse might be a walking, talking wonder, but it’ll take every one of his special gifts to catch his landlady’s killer.
A freak accident at birth gave house mouse Max the ability to speak, but an ego-bruising life lesson taught him to keep his muzzle shut. Now, he leads a quiet life at the Reginald Arms, a struggling boardinghouse with a troubled past.
At least he did until cupcake-making marvel Darla Jo Masters moves in to help her aunt run the place and lures him from the shadows with the delicious scent of her freshly baked treats. She’s also whipping up ideas for home improvements to keep her aunt out of bankruptcy.
The only problem is, Landlady Jenkins doesn’t want Darla Jo’s help, and she might be trying to sabotage them by working with the local newspaper to sensationalize an old family scandal and rumors of a resident ghost.
When Landlady Jenkins turns up dead, Darla Jo is the prime suspect. The cops think it’s an open-and-shut case, but Max is standing by his friend. Can this timid little critter save an innocent girl, or will his vow of silence allow a killer to get away with murder?
If you’re a reader who likes cozy mysteries, cute critters, and cupcakes, Mouse in the House is for you.
ONE
It had to be the cupcakes. Darla Jo had shooed me off to my hiding spot under the staircase while she spent the afternoon refining a secret recipe, but I knew what the kitchen looked like when she baked. All those batter-crusted mixing bowls, frosting-covered spoons, and pans filled with crumbly goodness were the stuff of dreams, but Landlady Jenkins didn’t see it that way. She had little patience for her niece’s messes, and she wasn’t shy about making it known.
That had to be what all the yelling was about. If I was a braver mouse, I would have rushed to Darla Jo’s defense, but I wasn’t brave. Not anymore.
Besides, the last time Landlady Jenkins spotted me, she’d grabbed a broom and chased me up the stairs. I’d gotten away, of course, but she’d slipped on a step and ended up in the hospital for three days.
That’s why she walks with a cane now, and I bet the sight of me would rile her up all over again. There’s no telling what might happen if she spotted me poking around.
I can’t say I entirely regret the accident, though. It was during that hospital stay that Darla Jo Masters showed up with her bluebell eyes and vanilla-scented hair, which hangs in soft, brown waves over her shoulders. She told Landlady Jenkins she’d come to help run the boardinghouse so her aunt could rest and recuperate.
At least, that’s how it started.
Once Darla Jo saw all the past-due notices in the mail, she decided her aunt needed more than a few pillows and afternoons off her feet.
She’s made it her mission to set the place straight, and every week, she comes up with new ideas to make it profitable. Her latest is a doozy too.
“The Reginald Arms has been in our family for six generations,” I heard her tell her aunt over breakfast. “We can’t let a bank take it. There’s so much potential here with the beach only a few blocks away. The tourist hotels sell out during the summer. I’m sure we could attract some of that business if we tried. We also have something those hotels don’t. We have history. My dad loved to tell me stories about how this used to be one of the grandest houses in the city. We should be using that to our advantage.”
Landlady Jenkins wrinkled her nose like she always did. “What advantage? We’re a boardinghouse. Nothing more, nothing less.”
But the place isn’t much of a boardinghouse, either. There are five en suite rooms carved into the upstairs floor, and only one paying tenant since a rainstorm flooded out the other two three months ago.
Still, I wasn’t entirely sold on Darla Jo’s latest suggestion. It was like she had never taken a good look at the place, because if she had, she’d see dirt where grass should be, bare wood where paint should be, and a porch step that was broken long before I moved in a year ago.
It was a wretched sight, even on a good day.
What self-respecting tourist would choose to stay in a dump like this?
For me, however, it was perfect. The building was a mess, but so was I the first time I saw it. I was looking for a place to hide away and hide out, and this place fit the bill. I sneaked inside, found a cozy spot under the stairs, and it’s been home ever since.
I got so used to the miserable conditions, I stopped noticing them until Darla Jo showed up. Then, somehow, without even trying, that girl made everything better. Sometimes I wonder why she puts up with this place, considering the way Landlady Jenkins treats her.
Lucky for me, Darla Jo tolerates it. And even luckier for me, when it gets really bad, she bakes. After their last fight, she made snickerdoodle cupcakes and raspberry white chocolate cupcakes on the same day.
So, when she told me she wanted to be alone to tinker with a new recipe, I suspected something was troubling her. At first, the yelling didn’t even surprise me.
Another day, another argument. That was practically their daily routine.
Except something was different this time. Landlady Jenkins wasn’t yelling at Darla Jo. It was the other way around.
I pressed my ear to the widest crack in the wood and tried to listen in. It was the first time I’d heard Darla Jo yell. Ever. She hadn’t even raised her voice the afternoon she caught me taste-testing one of her double chocolate cupcakes that first time. They were so heavenly, so absolutely scrumptious, I’d completely forgotten to use my mouse sounds.
I’d tried to resist those sweet treats, but I hadn’t smelled anything that good in months. Maybe not in my whole life. Then, once I tasted that decadent goodness, I couldn’t stop myself.
When she’d spotted me, she didn’t scream. She didn’t jump up on a chair. She didn’t do any of the things humans usually do when they see me or one of my kind. She just said, rather calmly, “Excuse me.”
Too startled to think straight, I’d spun around with my arms in the air and begged forgiveness. Actually, my exact words were, “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to eat the whole thing.”
When I realized I was speaking in my natural voice, the one I’ve had since birth and which I’ve solemnly sworn never to use again, I clamped my mouth shut and made a mad dash for the closest hole in the wall.
It didn’t occur to me that she wasn’t screaming or running or chasing me with a broom until I heard her say, still calmly, “So, you like my cupcakes? If you come back, you can have another one.”
I figured it was a trick, but there was something about her—something as sweet as the little cake I’d been nibbling—that made me trust her.
So, I went back, and when I saw that smile on her lips and in her eyes, I introduced myself. “Hello. I’m Maxwell Mouse, formerly of the Arabella Beach Pier Mouses and presently sole mouse resident of the Reginald Arms.”
Was it reckless? I guess it was. But if you’ve ever had one of Darla Jo’s exceptional treats, you know they’re worth any risk. And even that first day, I somehow knew Darla Jo was exceptional too. When she smiled, dimples kissed both cheeks and her dark chocolate eyes disappeared behind happy crescents. A girl like that wouldn’t hurt a fly, I told myself, let alone a mouse.
Yet that angry voice in the other room definitely belonged to Darla Jo, even if I couldn’t make out every word.
“How…?”
“Why…?”
“What possessed you?”
What had the old woman done to upset Darla Jo so much?
When my whiskers twitched, a sign that trouble was near, I knew I had to do something. I shimmied through the crack in the wood panel and raced through the empty dining room to the kitchen.
As I neared, I could hear Darla Jo more clearly.
“Why would you say those things to a reporter?”
“I didn’t say anything to a reporter, not that it’s any of your business,” Landlady Jenkins shot back. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
I hurried across the floor until I reached the open door to the kitchen. From the narrow space beneath the door hinge, I could see my friend standing beside three racks of cupcakes cooling on the counter, a newspaper clenched in her fist.
Landlady Jenkins stood in front of the refrigerator, s
Darla Jo scanned the page. “Why would they go to the historical society? Did you tell them to do that? Did you tip them off?”
Landlady Jenkins busied herself wiping crumbs from the counter. It was a pointless effort considering the monumental mess in front of her. “I did no such thing. Maybe they followed me. How am I supposed to know?”
“Followed you? You went there? Why?”
“That’s none of your business.”
Darla Jo fumed. “Really? You’ve made it clear you hate my idea of turning this place into a bed and breakfast. Telling the world Carson Reginald was murdered here and that his ghost roams the halls is a great way to make sure that never happens. Awfully convenient, wouldn’t you say? No one in their right mind would want to stay here now.” She shook the newspaper at her aunt to emphasize her point.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve been operating this boardinghouse longer than you’ve been alive, and I watched my father run it before that, and his father before that. I don’t need a college student telling me how to do my business.”
“Graduate,” Darla Jo mumbled. “I’m a college graduate.”
“That’s what you say, but I don’t see a degree. Where’s the degree?”
“It’s in the mail. I spoke to somebody at the college, and they said there was a mix up with some of the names. It’s on its way.”
“Fine, so you get a degree, and you think you can take The Reginald away from me?”
Darla Jo closed her eyes and shook her head. “No one wants to take this place away from you, except your bank, and reminding the world that your grandfather’s grandfather was murdered here by his own son and spreading some silly story that his ghost haunts the place isn’t going to help you attract new tenants or tourists or anybody.”
“They got that part wrong,” Landlady Jenkins sneered back. “It’s not Carson’s ghost. It’s his son, Alexander. The story my father told me was the young man was drunk and flew into a rage one night when his father refused to give him money to pay off a gambling debt. They fought. Alexander said his father had plenty of gold, and he practically tore the place apart looking for the stash. When Carson tried to stop him, that’s when he fell down the stairs. He wasn’t pushed, despite what people believed. When he sobered up, Alexander was filled with remorse, and his soul never found peace. That’s why he haunts the corridors. I was going to call those newspaper people to tell them that. If they’re going to print this drivel, they can at least get their facts straight.”
“Is that really the point?” Darla Jo threw the newspaper on the counter, where it skidded between two dirty mixing bowls. “But, yes, please, ask them to print a correction. Let’s keep our family’s old dirty laundry in the public eye for another news cycle so no one will ever want to step foot in this place again.”
Someone pounded on the kitchen door. Landlady Jenkins glanced at the clock and scowled before hobbling over to answer it. When she turned around to grab the knob, the edge of her cane caught the side of a chair and pulled her off balance.
The old woman tipped and swayed and was about to tumble, but Darla Jo caught her in time. As the woman’s arms flailed, trying to regain her balance, her hand swiped across Darla Jo’s cheek, leaving a sliver of red.
“Are you all right?” Darla Jo grabbed the cane and handed it back to her aunt, then rubbed her cheek.
“Good grief, who put that chair in the way? I’m fine. Don’t make such a fuss.” She planted the cane firmly, pulled open the door, and turned back without even looking at the delivery guy. “You’re late. Again. I want my discount.”
The pizza guy, a lanky young man in black-rimmed glasses, a red and white striped polo shirt with a Pepperoni Joe’s logo on the chest, and a matching ball cap pulled low over his eyes, set the pizza box on the table beside the door. The smell of spicy meat, cheese, and tomato sauce filled the room. “I keep telling you, Ms. Jenkins, your clock must be fast. The order slip says you called in at seven-oh-nine. It’s only seven-twenty-five. The shop guarantees thirty minutes or sooner. Remember, I told you that yesterday.”
And the day before that and the day before that. You’d think a woman who ordered pizza every night of the week would know the rules by now. But the delivery guy and I both knew her memory was just fine.
Complaining about the pizza being late even when it wasn’t—and it never was—had become as much a daily ritual for Landlady Jenkins as complaining about Darla Jo’s business suggestions.
The second part of this particular ritual was still playing out as she fished a single bill from her wallet and fiddled with her glasses as she examined it. Finally, she placed the bill in the young man’s hand. “There now. You can keep the change.”
He forced a smile. “Thank you, ma’am. With tips like this, I’ll be able to afford graduate school any day now.”
She scooped up the box and took it to the last clear space on the counter. “Good for you. You could teach my grandniece here a thing or two about the value of a dollar.”
The delivery guy must have sensed she was trying to lure him into something, so he waved at Darla Jo and made a hasty exit.
“You know that was only a dollar, right? That pizza cost almost twenty. You should have given him at least a five.”
“Didn’t I? These glasses are getting so old. It’s impossible to see anything sometimes.” She opened a cupboard and grabbed one of her paper plates.
The excuse would have been more believable if she didn’t make the same mistake every day.
“Besides, a dollar is a respectable tip. You heard him. He was grateful for it, unlike some people.”
Darla Jo shook her head and pulled off her cherry-print apron. “Fine. Tip whatever you want. I’ve got to get to work.”
“Work? Where? I thought you were here to help me.”
“I am, but I told you yesterday, I’m taking the night shift at Sugar Wave Bakery to help out while one of their bakers is on maternity leave.” She grabbed her purse and a jacket from the back of a chair. “A degree in food services is one thing, but I need real-world experience if I’m ever going to have a bakery of my own. Don’t worry. I’ll be back before you’re up in the morning.”
Landlady Jenkins scowled. “You’re going to be in and out at all hours now? What kind of place do you think this is? And who’s going to clean up this mess? I’m not your maid, you know.”
Darla Jo looked at the mess and shook her head. “I know. I’m sorry. I swear I’ll clean it up as soon as I get back. The kitchen will be spotless by breakfast. I promise.”
Before Landlady Jenkins said another word, Darla Jo bolted out the door. I could hear the soft scrape of her ballerina flats on the concrete walkway as she hurried to her car.
From my hiding place, I watched the old woman glare at the countertops and worried she might give in and clean them herself. Thankfully, she only opened her pizza box and piled three slices dripping with strings of mozzarella onto her plate before hobbling toward the living room.
I could hardly believe my luck. The room was mine!
Over the past few weeks, Darla Jo and I had come to an understanding: I was welcome to the batter and crumbs from the bowls, utensils, and pans, but the cupcakes on the cooling rack were off limits unless explicitly offered. It required immense willpower to resist those scrumptious treats, but she always left a generous amount of batter and, I suspected, crumbled a few perfectly good cupcakes to be sure I had plenty of crumbs.
I was especially eager to try this new recipe of hers. Vanilla by the smell of it. She knew I loved vanilla. Since she’d been here, she’d made just about every kind there was: French vanilla, Tahitian vanilla, Madagascar vanilla, and some others I’d never even heard of. They’d all been delicious.
