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“In that case,” replied Thursday1–4 with impeccable twisted logic, “it must have been my turn to do the Jaffa cakes.”
“I suppose.”
“Then, since you very kindly undertook that task on my behalf, it’s your turn to do something again—so find the sodding piano stool and stop bothering me with your bleating.”
I laid a hand on Thursday1–4’s arm and said, “Find the piano stool, Thursday.”
She tutted haughtily in a manner that Friday would have approved of but got up and had a look around the room, eventually finding it near a heap of sheet music, a few music stands and a dusty bassoon.
“Here,” she said in a bored tone, lifting the lid to look inside. Just at that moment, there was a buzzing noise, and the Goetzmann grand appeared in the brightly lit aperture in the wall.
“Right on time.”
I twiddled a few knobs to set its onward journey, told Thursday1–4 to put the piano stool with it, which she did, and then, with yet another buzz, I sent it on to the great hall of Stonygates inside Agatha Christie’s They Do It with Mirrors.
“Good,” I muttered, crossing that first task off the list. “We’ve got nothing else for a half hour.”
But my troubles weren’t nearly over, as Thursday5 had sat in the chair recently vacated by Thursday1–4.
“You’re in my seat.”
“It’s not your seat.”
“I sat in it first, so it’s mine.”
“You can’t do dibs on seats, and besides, you don’t own it.”
“Listen,” growled Thursday1–4, “do you like doing crochet?”
“Yes, so…?”
“Then perhaps you can imagine how tricky that might be…with broken fingers.”
Thursday5’s lip trembled for a moment. “I’m…I’m…sure we can discuss this like rational adults before resorting to anything so crude as violence.”
“Perhaps we could,” returned Thursday1–4, “but it’s far easier with me telling you how it’s going to be. Now, get your tie-dyed butt out of my seat.”
“Thursday?” I said.
“I can deal with this,” snapped Thursday5 in a rare show of annoyance. “I don’t need to be rescued like a child every single time Miss Slagfest here opens her trap!”
“I’m not meddling,” I replied. “All I want to know is where Thursday1–4 got that pistol.”
“This?” she said, holding up the small black automatic that I’d suddenly noticed she was holding. “It’s really cool, isn’t it? A Browning twenty-six-caliber standard single-action automatic with slide and grip safety.”
“Where did you get it?”
“I found it,” she retorted defensively, “so I’m keeping it.”
I didn’t have time for this.
“Tell me where you found it, or you’ll be its next victim.”
She paused, then said, “It was…in that piano stool.”
“Idiot!” I yelled, getting up and demanding she hand it over, which she did. “That’s an essential plot point in They Do It with Mirrors! Why can’t you just leave things alone?”
“I thought—”
