Page 67 of Hoodoo House
As they walked down the hallway towards the kitchen, Charlie saw the door of the writing room lying in pieces on the floor. In its place, police tape crisscrossed the opening. The office furniture had been tossed around like a tornado had been through the room, and the books were stripped from the shelves. What Charlie found more disturbing was the wall that ran up beside the stairs. The wood panelling was stained with a spray of dried blood, along with bloody handprints. Charlie felt sick at the thought of thirteen-year-old Henry being involved in all of this.
When they reached the kitchen, Mrs Cameron stood by the stove stirring a large pot of soup. Charlie could smell freshly baked buns.
Henry stood close to Mrs Cameron.
He’s probably still scared. Who could blame him?
“Come on. Sit down,” she said. “I’m assuming you’ll both eat.”
“Thank you, Mrs Cameron. We’d love to,” Declan replied.
There was a knock at the front door. Henry looked towards it, but didn’t move.
“I’m closer,” Charlie said. “I’ll get it.”
He opened the door and let Sinclair Yamada in.
“What a damned mess this has become,” Sinclair said, looking around.
Charlie nodded and led Sinclair back to the kitchen.
They all sat down around the table like a dysfunctional family at Christmas. Mrs Cameron and Henry served. Sinclair tore his bun apart and started to shove it into his mouth. Henry cleared his throat. The young man lowered his head and said, “God, please bless this meal, and everyone around this table and the people they care about, both here and in heaven.” He looked upward. “And Mom, I promise to eat all my soup, including the beans. Amen.”
“Amen,” Mrs Cameron said, followed by muttering from the others.
Declan began, “So we’ve got some news to share with you.”
Mrs Cameron stared him down. “If you don’t mind, before you share your news, can we just enjoy the food without talk of the recent nasty business? There’ll be time enough to talk after we’re done.”
Declan nodded, and the only sound for the next ten minutes was the clattering of spoons on bowls, and Henry slurping his broth.
When the main meal was cleared away, Mrs Cameron brought out coffee and a sponge cake with whipped cream and strawberries.
Declan said, “Thank you Mrs Cameron. Is it all right to start now?”
She nodded.
“I have some bad news, Sinclair,” Declan began. “The computer’s been stolen.”
“What!” Sinclair snapped.
Charlie interjected, “We had to turn it over to the RCMP anyway—”
Sinclair turned red in the face. “You turned the computer over?”
“We were going to—minus certain sensitive files as requested,” Declan continued, “but we never got it to the cops. We were held up by a group of armed bikers who took the computer off our hands.”
Sinclair thumped the table with his fist. “This whole thing is a bloody disaster.”
“As I said,” Declan reiterated, “certain sensitive files had been removed.”
Sinclair scowled. “None of it matters anymore. Now that Malcolm Tull is dead, Mount Temple Press is seriously considering not continuing with the book series. The company’s owner is well past his best-before date—his words, not mine—and he wants a break. He’s currently looking at a take-over bid for the back-catalogue, and that’s it. He’ll be closing down operations.”
“So how will this affect you?” Charlie asked.
“I’ll be out on the street, looking for a job,” Sinclair said. He took a sip of water then continued. “And as goeth Mount Temple Press, so goeth the Heart’s Shadow Foundation. In a meeting earlier today, I found out that, in light of the potential sale and the recent events here, the foundation will begin winding down its operations. That includes the liquidation of all of its tangible assets. Hoodoo House will be sold, and there will be no more ghostwriters.”
Henry looked panicked. “Mr Yamada—shhh,” he said, putting his finger to his mouth. “You can’t tell the secret. Declan and Charlie aren’t supposed to know about the ghostwriters.”
