Page 78 of Crazy Spooky Love
We’re sitting in one of those out-of-town shopping-center car parks eating Nonna’s Italian banquet while we go over the plan. We’ve checked out the house; it looks to be a fairly innocuous, narrow-end terrace in a tall, gray Edwardian row.
“Let me do the talking,” I say, wiping my chicken-greasy hands on a thick white cotton napkin. I’m speaking mostly to Marina, because Artie isn’t likely to contribute much around strangers whereas she might get riled if they don’t believe a word we say.
“I’m expecting them to take some convincing,” I say, laying the groundwork. “I mean, think of it from their point of view. We’re a bunch of ghost hunters turning up in Babs, which puts us firmly at a disadvantage from the outset. Then we’re going to tell them that I see ghosts, that Richard’s dead grandfather would like to meet him, and that if they could drop everything and come back to Chapelwick today it really would help us out a lot. Oh, and we’re going to try to resolve his great-uncle’s murder while we’re there too.” I pause to draw a breath and reach for a bottle of water. “It’s pretty out-there.”
“Good job we didn’t bring Lestat,” Artie says, eating an individual tiramisu with a silver spoon; it’s that kind of cooler. “He might have tipped them over the edge.”
“Because ghost hunters, messages from beyond the grave, and murdered uncles aren’t enough to do that,” Marina deadpans, and I groan and scrub my hands over my face.
“It’s going to come down to what sort of people they are,” I say. “Coming from the background I have, I know that there are two types of people in this world. Open-minded ones and closed. You guys, for instance, are open-minded,” I say, by way of example. “Fletcher Gunn’s mind, on the other hand, is closed to any such possibilities. He sees the world in black and white—he point-blank refuses to look up at the whole gorgeous rainbow that’sthere over his head because he’s so bloody determined that he’s right and I’m wrong all of the time. He sticks rigidly to his small and perfectly formed beliefs even though they put him at direct loggerheads with me, which makes anything other than combustible sex out of the question.”
Marina narrows her eyes at me, and Artie rummages in the cooler then hands over a little chocolate bar in silence. I break a bit off and suck it, letting the sugar slide into my veins and sweeten my mood again after my mini Fletch-rant. It’s like he’s flashing his headlights inside my brain trying to get my attention, despite my resolution to park him out of sight for a while.
“I’m just saying that if their minds are too closed, then we’ll be better off getting back in Babs and heading back to Scarborough House sooner rather than later.”
Marina gathers all of the used plates, cutlery, and rubbish together and packs it into the cooler, and then we all look at each other with nervous, excited eyes.
“Come on then,” I say, turning the key in the ignition.
“Here goes nothing.”
Chapter
Twenty-two
I’ve parked Babs farther down the street so that she’s not the first thing visible to whoever opens the door. I think we all look pretty normal this morning, although there’s no getting away from the fact that we probably seem like a bunch of dodgy door-to-door salespeople at first sight. Artie couldn’t look blander in his jeans andDoctor WhoT-shirt; Marina’s nipped-in jacket, skinnies-and-heels look is a chic mixture of business and nightclub; and I’ve matched my sneakers with the red, white, and blue of Captain America’s shield emblazoned across my chest. If nothing else, we look cool and unthreatening. These people should just be glad it’s not Leo and the creepy twins delivering this news, because opening the door and finding those three brooding and glamorous creatures on their doorstep would probably feel similar to being paid a visit by the Devil and his handmaidens.
“Ring the bell,” Marina says through clenched teeth behindme.
“I’m going to, I’m just psyching myself up for it,” I whisper, rolling my shoulders. I’ve hovered my finger over the bell once already then chickened out and scratched my nose instead. I can feel myself starting to get all hot and bothered.
“Should we go and have a coffee in that café round the corner first?” I ask, and in answer Marina reaches over my shoulder and pushes the bell. I slap at her arm with both hands, and she flicks my earlobe as she retracts her wrist.
“I don’t know where you’d be without me, Bittersweet,” she says.
“In the café around the corner drinking coffee,” Artie says, and I can’t help but laugh under my breath, which is why Isaac’s grandson finds me grinning like an idiot when he swings the door open several seconds later. I know without needing to ask that he’s Isaac’s grandson, because he’s the absolute spitting image of him. Facially anyway, but where Isaac favors the traditional, neat, cardigan-and-slacks look, his grandson is…how can I put this? He’s avant-garde. His shock of white hair is held back by a red bandana, and his cheesecloth grandad-shirt is loose and paint-splattered. His faded jeans are similarly daubed, and he’s barefoot. He looks like a man who’s lived, and from the looks of his leathery suntan, I’d say he’s lived in warmer places than England.
“Mr. Henson, I presume?” I frame it as a question even though I know the answer.
“Too Sherlock Holmes,” Marina mutters, and I just keep smiling and ignore her.
“Yes,” he says, eyeing us with curious, and it has to be said, suspicious eyes.
“My name’s Melody, Mr. Henson. Melody Bittersweet, and this is Marina Malone and Artie Elliott.”
He glances at each of us in turn. Marina nods and Artie bobs his hand up at the mention of his name like a schoolboy answering the roll call.
“I’m probably not going to buy whatever it is you’re trying to sell me,” he says mildly. God, I hope he’s wrong.
“Oh, we’re not here to sell you anything,” I insist. “We’ve driven all the way up here from Shropshire this morning just to see you.”
His brow creases, telling me that I’ve just made us sound sinister, so I backpedal hastily.
“I mean, it wasn’t all that far really, and we had a decent picnic thanks to Marina’s grandmother, so I’m not complaining…” Shitballs, I’ve gone off on a tangent and now he looks less like a friendly bohemian artist and more like an alarmed, slightly pissed-off pensioner about to cut us off.
“Look, I don’t mean to be rude but I’m rather busy,” he says, and I start to panic because he’s closing the door. I don’t know what I can say to make him listen, and Marina jumps into the breach.
“This is going to sound weird, but please listen. We need to speak to you urgently about your grandfather Isaac Scarborough.”
