Pure Dead Wicked by Debi Gliori Page A

the product label. “‘For boat or caravan use,’ ” she quoted, adding, “Also handy in expensive hotels for extinguishing tablecloths.”
    â€œThat’ll be for Ffup, I take it,” said Mrs. McLachlan. “Oh, look, here comes our lunch.”
    They repacked their purchases and sat back in their seats while a waitress slid two laden platefuls of chicken and fries onto the table. “Salt ’n’ sauce? Ketchup? Vinegar? Mayonnaise?” she inquired.
    â€œYes, please,” said Pandora and Mrs. McLachlan in unison.
    The waitress disappeared and returned immediately with all five condiments, a pile of paper napkins, and a bowl of tomato soup for Damp.
    â€œThis is so much nicer than the hotel,” said Pandora through a mouthful of fries. “I really don’t like that Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell and I know she doesn’t like us much.”
    Mrs. McLachlan stopped chewing and looked Pandora straight in the eye. “On the contrary, dear,” she said, dabbing at her lips with her napkin, “Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell is
unusually
fond of your father.”
    â€œYeuchhh,” said Pandora. “She’s way too old for him, and besides, he’s
married
. To Mum.”
    â€œMrs. Fforbes-Campbell is also married,” said Mrs. McLachlan, “but she’s not the kind of woman to let a little thing like wedding vows stand in her way. Mark my words, dear, that woman is
trouble
. She intends to do her level best—” Mrs. McLachlan suddenly stopped in mid-prediction, conscious that she’d said far too much already. Bending her head, she applied herself to her plate as if her life depended on it.
    â€œHow come you know so much about her?” Pandora’s brows knitted themselves into paired question marks. “Can you read minds or something?”
    â€œMmm . . .” Mrs. McLachlan sought refuge in a cloud of vagueness, hoping that Pandora would drop the subject.
    This was not to be. “Come on, Mrs. McLachlan, prove it,” challenged Pandora. She put her cutlery down on her plate, closed her eyes, and concentrated. “Right, I’m thinking about something now—if you can really read minds, then tell me what’s in mine.”
    â€œPandora, stop being silly—your lunch is getting cold.”
    â€œI’m
concentrating,
” said Pandora. “Surely that makes it easier for you.”
    â€œDon’t be daft, dear. . . .”
    Conscious that Mrs. McLachlan was weakening, Pandora smiled. Her eyes were still tightly shut.
    â€œOh, very
well,
” Mrs. McLachlan sighed, pulling out her powder compact from her handbag, “but you must keep your eyes closed.” She lifted the compact’s lid and peered inside.
    Black as pitch, the tiny mirror began to undergo a subtle transformation. Its surface bubbled like boiling toffee, turning dark brown, then bronze, and finally clearing to a beautiful transparent gold. Below the mirror, the face powder swirled as if there were a hidden undertow running below its surface. At the very instant an image formed in the mirror, the face powder halted in its tidal motion and threw up the words:
    WHAT A PIG YOU ARE, CHILD
    Mrs. McLachlan stifled a laugh as she realized that this referred to the mirrored image of Pandora eating a vast slab of Banoffee Pie, the current dessert on the Quid’s Inn lunchtime menu. She looked up and found Pandora staring at her.
    â€œI peeked,” Pandora confessed. “Sorry, I just couldn’t resist. So: what was I thinking about and, more importantly, what is that in your hands? Is this what you meant when you wouldn’t tell me your secret the day Mum Band-Aided the roof?”
    Mrs. McLachlan rolled her eyes in despair. Glancing in her compact before she closed its lid, she caught a glimpse of a Pandora-shaped cat with all four paws in the air, and written in the powder was the observation:
    . . . AND SUCH A NOSY ONE,