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Brie waited while Charlie opened up a large tool kit that looked like something her husband took with him when he went fishing, to hold everything from lures to a first-aid kit. But Charlie’s box was bigger. He took out a gray plastic rectangular container, no more than five inches long, about the same shape and size as a stick of butter.
“You see there’s a little door at the end,” he said. “You put some bait inside, leave the door open, and when the mouse goes in it triggers the door to close.”
He demonstrated.
“So when you see the door has dropped, you know you’ve got him. Then you can take him outside, open the door, and set him free.”
“Oh,” Brie said. “A humane trap.”
Charlie nodded.
“But won’t he come back inside again?” she asked.
“So, you go around the house and look for ways he and his friends might be coming in. Fill in the cracks, plug holes. Check dryer and stove vents, in case they’re getting in that way. I know it’s not as effective as killin’ them dead, but it’s something to consider.”
Charlie’s expression turned solemn. “What people forget is, animals have souls, too. Whether it’s us, a dog, a cat, even some lowly mouse, we’re all God’s creatures, you know.”
Brie said, “That’s … an interesting philosophy from someone in your line of work.”
He shrugged. “You know, sometimes I’ll find something in someone’s house and remove it, but I won’t kill it. And I won’t set it free, either, in the woods or whatever. I’ll keep it and take care of it.”
“What, in a cage?”
Charlie nodded. “I got lots of little critters I look after. Feed ’em, nurture them.”
“Well,” Brie said, not sure what to make of that.
“Anyway, back to business. I don’t know for sure whether you’ve got an infestation or not, so let me ask you this: Do you bake?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Muffins? Cupcakes? You make those?”
“Um, not that much. I’m not exactly the world’s greatest chef. Andrew, he cooks some.” She grinned. “We do a lot of takeout.”
Charlie looked disappointed. “Do you have any flour?”
“Flour? Like, for cooking?”
“Yup.”
She went over to one of the cupboards, opened it, and pointed to a tin on the first shelf. She brought it down and pried off the lid.
“This?”
“Before you go to bed tonight,” Charlie said, “sprinkle that on the floor in front of the sink here. You got mice, you’ll see their tiny little footprints in the morning. You don’t see anything, chances are you don’t have them.”
Brie nodded, impressed. “And just vacuum it up after.”
“There you go.” He put two of the humane traps atop the counter. “Why don’t I leave you these, and I’ll pop by tomorrow, see if you spotted any tracks, and you can decide how you want to handle this.”
She asked what she owed him, and he said they could settle up the following day, once they determined whether she actually had any mice. At that point she could decide on more humane traps, the glue ones, or poisoned bait.
She followed him out to his van and realized she’d stopped noticing the tobacco stench coming off of him. Your nose could get used to just about anything, she concluded.
As he was backing out of the driveway, Brie spotted a familiar vehicle parked on the other side of the street, about three houses down from hers. A blue Chrysler minivan. There was a man sitting behind the wheel, looking her way.
God, she thought. What the hell is Norman doing there?
