Page 59 of Crazy Spooky Love
I glance down at Lestat and hope he didn’t hear Leo. “He takes offense at the wordlead,” I say, mouthing the last word just in case. It’s not a lie. The resettlement pack that came with Lestat had a tick list, and someone, presumably the American Tom Jones, had scrawled “hell no!” next to the box where it asked if he was trained on a lead. I took it with a pinch of salt and bought one anyway; I’ve seen enough TV dogs go bonkers with happiness at the mere mention of a walk. Not this dog. Oh, it’s fair to say he went bonkers, butnot with happiness. It was more like pure, unadulterated rage. He doesn’t mind the odd stroll as long as the weather’s decent, but it’s strictly on equal terms, just two dudes out taking the air and chewing the cud.
“He’ll be all right once he’s in there,” I say. “He’s just excited to be somewhere new.”
Leo sighs and slots his key into the front door, and the moment he pushes it open we can hear muffled shouts.
“How long have they been up there?” Leo frowns as he throws his keys on a side table and prepares to head upstairs. He sounds more like a doctor on call than a ghost hunter, and for a second I’m struck by two things: 1) I gave him the vintage Bowie tour T-shirt he’s wearing, and 2) despite our differences he’s undeniably a damn fine-looking man. He has a brooding charisma, and even though he’s somewhat partial to guy-liner, he wouldn’t struggle to put a shelf up or wire a plug. He could tackle a flat pack chest of drawers with a screwdriver and a lot of swearing, but I wouldn’t trust him to, say, build my kids a tree house from scratch. When I have kids. Or trees. There was a time in our lives when I’d started to wonder if my children would be his children, if we’d have a garden with trees and share a bed at the end of each day. Man alive, all this from the way he threw his keys down on the hall table and acted like an actual grown-up? Once this case is over, I’m going to have a stern word with myself. First I snog the face off Fletcher Gunn, and now I’m daydreaming about playing house with Leo Dark.
Can you have a selective frontal lobotomy? I’d really like it if they could just nip in and remove my faulty romance-gene by laser surgery and replace it with one that makes me attracted to men who aren’t lethal for both my heart and my business.
By now, Leo has gone on up the stairs, with Donovan Scarborough behind him, so I hang back and wait to see what happens for a few minutes; even I can see that running up there and trying to outsmart Leo would make me look like an idiot. I’m not waiting alone; Lestat is scoping the place out thoroughly, face to the floorand backside in the air as he inches his way around the skirting, and Douglas puts in an appearance the moment Leo is out of sight, strolling from the lounge like an actor walking onstage in a farce.
“Sashay away upstairs and look, Isaac’s gone totally loco.” He grins wickedly as he heads for the stairs, and I stare at him when he turns back to me expectantly.
“Did you just say ‘sashay away’?”
“Girl, I watchRuPaul,” he laughs.
“Just stick to the sport and the kids’ channels, for God’s sake.” I dread to think of some of the late-night stuff that he could come across.
Douglas’s eyes sparkle with fun. “Too late. I’m quite ruined, Melody, and it’s all your fault.”
He holds my gaze for a long moment, and once again I have that intimate feeling, that unexpected zing of connection with him. It’s probably because he’s not all that different in age from me and—and I cannot stress thisenough—he is ridiculously handsome. I mean, if he were alive right now, he’d be snapped up by a modeling agency in a heartbeat to front designer aftershave campaigns, looking moody on horseback or floating on his back in a sunlit lagoon. Or maybe he’d be in a boy band, even though Isaac said he can’t hold a note. Anyway, the point is that he is incredible to look at and, to me at least, he appears flesh-and-blood real. Throw in the fact that I am literally the only girl in the world he can talk to and you have the breeding ground for an entirely inappropriate crush on both sides.
I’m pulled back into the here and now by the almighty racket coming from upstairs. It does actually sound as if Isaac has indeed gone crazy, so I cross to the bottom of the stairs to listen to what’s goingon.
“Mr. Scarborough,” I hear Leo say, and then I hear him yelp. “Mr. Scarborough, please! Throwing books around isn’t going to help anyone, is it? Be a good chap.” A second later he yelps again, only a lot louder, and Douglas laughs just ahead of me on the staircase.
“Isaac always did have a good bowler’s arm,” he says carelessly.
I can hear banging around and I step halfway up to listen. Judging by the fact that Donovan Scarborough is hovering nervously outside the master bedroom at the far end of the landing, Leo must be in there trying to reason with Isaac.
“Why is he behaving like this?” I ask Douglas in hushed tones.
“They were talking about completion dates, I think they said?” Douglas says. “And I think theymighthave mentioned demolition.”
“Ah,” I say. I can see why that might have caused a stir.
“You need to let these people leave. Hostage-taking is a completely unacceptable way to behave,” Leo warns Isaac, assuming the tone of a police negotiator. “Now, I’m going to ask them to walk slowly toward the door, and I’m advising you very strongly not to throw anything else.”
Everything goes quiet for a moment, and I tiptoe up to the top of the stairs because it’s frustrating not being close enough to see and hear everything for myself.
“Okay, guys,” Leo says, low and authoritative. “Come toward me.”
I hear the creak of floorboards, and then a great flurry of bangs and squawks and a fair bit of violent, sweary shouting. Leo’s voice is loudest, and it doesn’t sound as if his cool, calm commands have been met. No one exits the room, but I can hear a woman sobbing now. It’s no good. I can’t just stand here any longer. I’m goingin.
Donovan Scarborough is as white as a sheet when I pass him by, and I pause in the doorway to get the measure of the situation. The last time I came in here with Isaac, I admired the cool retro furniture and funky wallpaper. It’s a very different scene today. The first thing to note is that the previously tidy master bedroom is an almighty mess. The blond wood nightstands have been hurled on their sides, drawers have been yanked out at odd angles, and vintage clothing strewn haphazardly around the room, and there are bookseverywhere.There’s a sizable bookcase to one side of the chimney breast and I’d say it was fully stocked before Isaac started hurlinghardcovers every time anyone tried to leave the room. In the far corner, cowering, are two men and a woman, all in business dress, all terrified out of their wits by the entity trying to cause them physical harm. They daren’t leave their huddle, and the woman is sobbing like a five-year-old who’s lost her balloon. Leo’s sporting a fresh, bloody cut just above his eyebrow, and Isaac himself looks absolutely wild with fury. I’ll be honest, I’m shocked to see him in such an unkempt state. His rage has strengthened him, and right now he’s a pretty powerful ghost.
“Don’t come in, Melody,” Leo murmurs, putting his arm out to the side to shield me. It’s an instinctive, protective gesture, and I’m momentarily thrown straight back into the fantasy where our babies are rolling around on the green-striped lawn and he’s sitting behind me on a swing-seat braiding my hair. I shake my head to clear out the rose-tinted image and step inside the bedroom.
“Isaac,” I say, even as he reaches for another book. Leo moves in front of me, but I lean around him and look calmly, steadily, at the furious ghost.
“Isaac, please. It’s me, Melody.”
Isaac pauses with the book still raised, his eyes finally fixed onme.
“I read your mother’s diary, Isaac,” I say. “I need to talk to you about Charles.”
The change in the room is electric. Isaac stiffens as if we’re playing statues, then lowers his arm and stares at me slack-jawed, his face a slow study of turbulent emotion. He cycles through rage to shock and finally to grief, so raw and heartsore that I almost have to look away. I don’t though. I stare at him, my heart racing, and just when it seems that he might be about to speak, he disappears in a blink, like a light being abruptly switched off.
