Page 43 of Crazy Spooky Love
“I made the list you asked for,” Isaac says, and his eyes move to the windowsill. “It’s behind the plant pot.”
I see the corner of the torn sheet of lined paper hidden behind a terra-cotta pot and tug it out. Isaac’s writing is spidery and unsure, but I can easily make out the words. It’s a fairly long list, some obvious places, some he’s going to have to direct me to as we search. It must have frustrated him greatly over the years not to have the strength or dexterity to do this himself. He’d died an elderly man, and he’d remained in the house as an elderly ghost with those same physical limitations.
I lower my voice to a confidential level. “Do the others know about the list?”
He shakes his head. “Best not.”
“That’s what I think too,” I say. I’m trying my best to stay open-minded and impartial, but of the three brothers Isaac is definitelythe one who is giving me the most leads and information to build the case around. Lloyd goes out of his way to make me unwelcome, and Douglas is forever twenty-one, rakish, and handsome without a serious bone in his dead body.
His only request has been to watch the odd game of cricket, which is entirely in keeping with the carefree young man he was. It suddenly strikes me that as well as cricket, he’s going to have access to any number of TV channels. What will he make of modern society? He’s been dead for over a century, and the most recent resident here was an elderly man who lived alone for at least the last twenty years. There must have been a TV here in the past because of the presence of the aerial, but I doubt very much ifMurder, She Wrotereruns and John Wayne Westerns will have in any way prepared Douglas for modern movies. Oh God, he might find the music channels. He’ll be a Swiftie before I know it! He’s in for the shock of his afterlife. I wonder if there are parental controls I can switch on to protect him. I’m starting to doubt the wisdom of bringing a TV here; he might get hooked onLove Islandand decide that he’s perfectly happy to hang around for the foreseeable future, thank you very much.
“I think I’ve done it.” Artie’s voice carries into the kitchen a few minutes later, and Marina, Isaac, and I all decamp into the sitting room as the screen flickers into life and messages flash up telling us to leave it in setup mode.
“Well done, you,” I say, smiling at Artie and giving him a celebratory fist bump.
“Yes. Bravo.” I turn at the sound of Douglas’s voice. He shoots me a barely there little hello wink as he walks past me and flops elegantly into one of the armchairs by the French doors. It felt like an intimate greeting, just for me, which is weird given that I’m the only one alive who can see him.
A flicker of movement in the corner of my eye snags my attention, and a sense of dread settles over me as Lloyd materializes through the wall. For the most part, the Scarborough brothers havechosen to behave as if they are still alive around me, probably for my benefit, or possibly because being able to communicate with me makes them feel a little more alive and they enjoy the novelty. They use the doors, even though they could just as easily pass through the walls, and they come and go in the regular way even though they could choose to appear and disappear at will. Perhaps that’s why Douglas in particular makes my heart race; he’s like a glamorous olde worlde movie star hiding out here. He’s James Dean in his own living room and my heart flutters suitably.
Lloyd looks as ill-tempered as ever, striding across the room in a way that makes his burgundy smoking jacket swish with agitation. “Have you been hiding a pen in the attic, Isaac?”
“Not everything in this house belongs to you,” Isaac responds wearily.
Lloyd’s laugh is unpleasant. “I rather think it does, seeing as the present owner is my great-grandson rather than yours, old boy.”
I jump in to diffuse the situation, tucking Isaac’s list safely into the back pocket of my jeans.
“It’s mine. I mean, I left a pen here by accident a couple of days ago. There’s more in the kitchen. Hang on, I’ll grab them.”
“I’ll go.” Marina is quick up out of the armchair she’s been sitting in while she followed the conversation as best she could and returns a couple of moments later with her hands full.
“Pens,” I say, and she holds the pack up as evidence before laying it down on the table.
“And a puzzle book.”
I shrug as she extends her arm over her head and shows it around the room before placing it down beside the pens.
“I feel like an air hostess. Shall I point out the emergency exits too?” she hisses under her breath, and then picks up the garish purple plastic Polly Pocket diary with a sweetheart lockable plastic key, holding it up for inspection. Hmm. It might have been better if we’d let that particular item go unmentioned.
“I wanted to give you a diary, Lloyd, but it’s quite late in the yearto try to buy one…” I trail off as he steps nearer to where Marina is holding it out. The look on his face could not be more withering or affronted. I’m surprised he doesn’t bat it clean out of Marina’s clutches.
“What use have I for a diary?” He curls his lip. “I neither wake early nor go to bed late, I no longer dine with my wife in the latest restaurants, and I don’t go to the theater, the opera, or the cinema. What, precisely, would you like me to record, Miss Bittersweet? Dust motes and the fascinating movement thereof? The weather outside, even though I feel neither the warmth of the sun nor the bite of the north wind? Or perhaps you’re hoping for a signed confession of murder?”
“It has a lock,” I murmur, feeling ridiculous. Marina turns the little golden key and extracts it, holding it in the air like Exhibit A.
“It’s a child’s toy, and I refuse to play your childish games.”
He stalks toward the door, then pauses to speak again without even having the courtesy to look atme.
“Leave the pens and the puzzle book on the table when you go.”
Oh, I will, and I’ll leave the diary too, because despite his apparent fury, I think Lloyd wants it really quite badly.
Amazingly, the TV works like a dream after Artie has fiddled around with it, and I consult the TV guide I brought with me to see if there’s cricketon.
“You’re in luck. There’s live coverage this afternoon,” I say, and Douglas’s eyes flare with excitement.
“You’ll have to remember to turn the TV off if anyone but us comes to the house,” I warn him. I’ve yet to work out a cover story to explain why I’ve installed a TV in the sitting room, but one thing is for sure; it isn’t going to involve Douglas wanting to watch cricket.
