Obviously ill at ease in city clothes, which hung awkwardly on him, a bored, bearded gent caught Mrs. Tweedlebare’s eye. The country mouse trapped in the city, Mrs. Tweedlebare muttered. Who could he be? She felt that he would be more at ease in a Janeiro jungle scene.
When she had visited Mrs. Janeiro for tea, Mrs. Tweedlebare had often felt that a bright-eyed monkey was apt to dunk a pilfered puff pastry into her tea or a boa constrictor slither across her foot in search of something to squeeze. Memories of tea with Mrs. Janeiro set howlers and parrots sounding off in her head. A Melancholy wedding scene with ladies in summer frocks and festive chapeaux, no matter how flamboyant, just couldn’t compete with blowgun-poisonous, neon-orange frogs leaping from hopscotch sized lily pads. Although she had been in a Melancholy setting for only a few minutes, Mrs. Tweedlebare already regretted that nothing therein promised to provide fodder for future stories.
While Mrs. Melancholy was fetching the teapot, Mrs. Tweedlebare reflected that the dining room table seemed to be the very one that the Janeiro’s had used. She furtively peeked underneath. At any rate, it had similar legs. The chairs looked to be the same size too but Mrs. Tweedlebare couldn’t swear that the present chairs were in fact Mrs. Janeiro’s old ones. Mrs. Tweedlebare prided herself on attention to detail, but was of a mind that one should not clog up one’s brain with such mundane matters unless one were working on a case. It did not appear that this was the case. It would likely be afternoon tea with Mrs. Melancholy and nothing more than that.
When she wasn’t caught up creating exhilarating events, such as The Case of the Forgetful Frog, Mrs. Tweedlebare took people to heart. Although, it was improbable that she was as talented a detective as Sherlock Holmes had been, she was appreciated by those whose woes she agreed to take on. The secret of her success was that she made the victim’s misery her own. Mrs. Tweedlebare did possess an ability that rivaled the skill of Sherlock. Her powers of observation were equal to those that Sherlock Holmes had demonstrated. She wondered if Holmes would have been so smugly certain of the particulars of these particular dining room chairs as he demonstrated in his stories.
Mrs. Tweedlebare had not needed a detective’s insight, however, to have gained a feel for the character of the daughter of the house. That the Melancholy household contained a self-proclaimed, precocious eight year-old had been thrust upon her from the moment that she rang the bell. She eventually noticed that Mrs. Melancholy had also been blessed by an adorable, rather shy, three-year old. She was taken with the smaller Melancholy child. Often seen, but seldom heard, Small Paul endeared himself to adults.
The writer's side of Mrs. Tweedlebare caused her to view things from a different angle than the one that she used when using her detective eyes. She felt relieved that at the moment no urgent criminal misdeeds cried out for attention because she found herself becoming interested in helping Mary with her story. For the life of her, she couldn’t imagine the likelihood of a story turning up in such a painfully placid place. She had best not let her hopes soar. She’d look forward to a pleasant chat with Mrs. Melancholy and would let it go at that.
Mrs. Tweedlebare was itching to peek under the crisp linen tablecloth because she suddenly remembered that there was a mark on the surface, if this was indeed Mrs. Janeiro’s old table. Mrs. Tweedlebare found it almost impossible to resist things that shouldn’t concern her. This quality made her an accomplished detective but it also succeeded in getting her into no end of trouble. She cautioned herself that such intense interest could very well give Mrs. Melancholy a very unfortunate first impression.
Pouring tea, Mrs. Melancholy said, “It’s wonderful to finally have the opportunity to chat with you, Mrs. Tweedlebare.”
She covered the pot with a cozy and picked up a gingersnap.
Mrs. Tweedlebare put down the uneaten half of her first gingersnap and said, “I have been looking forward to having a chat with you too, Mrs. Melancholy but please call me, Althea.”
“You must have loved the Janeiro’s, Althea,” Mrs. Melancholy said. “Janina is a lovely woman. She let us have this dining room set for a song, said it was too small for her new place. You couldn’t help but notice, I suppose, what with your detective ways and all. By the way, please call me Barbara.”
“Now that you mention it, Barbara,” she said, “I rather imagine that I do remember the dining room set.”
Funnily enough, even though there was now no need to, Mrs. Tweedlebare had not lost the itch. She was still bent on looking under the crisp white tablecloth just to reassure herself that the table had indeed belonged to Mrs. Janeiro. Janeiro triggered jaguar. Mrs. Tweedlebare drifted off into the world of the Amazon but soon remembered that Mrs. Janeiro’s jaguars had always been too well fed to be of interest to her readers. Jaguars with rounded stomachs, extended on the sand, snoozing in the sun beside a muddy tributary, were akin to zoo jaguars and as such were not worth a second glance.