Page 19 of Crazy Spooky Love
I huff under my breath and shake my head as I turn onto the far end of Chapelwick High Street, knowing that she’s going to make me work for not being more appreciative of her unorthodox intervention.
The thing is, I’m sure that in her head she thought she was helping me.
I know she meant well, even if what she actually did was more harmful than helpful.
“Okay, Gran,” I say, ignoring Marina’s half cough/half laugh because she knows I’m about to try to eat humble pie without choking on it. “It was kind of you to try to help. I sort of appreciate that you didn’t intend to discredit our entire profession and make us all look like a bunch of cowboys.”
Gran opens her eyes and stares at me, and Marina’s slow shake of the head tells me that my opening gambit was not quite humble enough.
“What I mean is that I know this came from a good place.”
“You sound like my therapist, Melody, if I had one, which I don’t.”
Gran closes her eyes and I seize the opportunity to pull a face at her because I’m having one hell of a frustrating day. She opens one eye, sees my face-pulling, and then closes it again.
“That was extremely childish of you.”
Marina leans forward and picks up my gran’s hand. “What Melody is trying to say is that we think what you did back there was amazeballs, Dicey, and we are all entirely grateful to you for trying to help.”
I nod with gritted teeth, even though Gran’s eyes are still closed.
“And it would be a huge help if you could please tell us if the Scarborough brothers told you anything of interest, if you don’t mind,” Artie interjects from behind us in his best professional voice, despite the fact that he isn’t belted in and has had to wedge himself between the back of the passenger bench and the wheel-arch to stop himself from being flung around the rear of the van like an astronaut in zero gravity.
After a dramatic pause Gran finally opens her eyes. “Seeing as you asked so politely,” she says, knotting the long string of pearls around her neck. “I gather that there’s ill feeling between Isaac and Lloyd.”
“Well, that’s putting it mildly, given that one of them killed their brother and they’re both trying to blame each other,” I mutter, distracted by the white-van man who just cut in front of us.
When I blast my horn, he flips me the bird through his open window.
I reply in kind with the universal sign for knob-head.
Having the last word in the altercation goes a small way toward alleviating my grumpiness. I turn my attention back to Gran.
“I found the same thing with Lloyd. He was no more chatty with you, then?”
Gran looks thoughtful. “Not very forthcoming, no. He doesn’t want you meddling. I know that much. Nor Leo. He’s prepared to allow the sale of the house with them in situ. It’s Isaac and Douglas who are causing the uproar.”
“Hmm, that’s what I got too. Looking into the available history of the house, which isn’t much, it seems that Isaac was generally held to blame for stabbing Douglas.
He was never convicted, but his family cut him off and he never returned to the house again while he was alive.
” I pull into the cobbled cartway at the side of Blithe Spirits and Babs shudders with relief as I kill the engine. “Sad, really.”
“If he didn’t do it, that is,” Marina adds.
“True. He’s easily the most forthcoming of the three, but he’s clearly furious and I’ve yet to work out what it is that I need to do to help.”
Marina unclicks her seatbelt. “Solve the mystery of who killed Douglas Scarborough, at a guess.”
“He’s rather a dashing chap, isn’t he?” Gran says, folding her kimono over her knees in readiness to disembark Babs. “Quite the looker.”
“I didn’t notice,” I lie, blatantly. Marina raises her eyebrows knowingly and laughs.
“Well, that explains why your cheeks were pink when he was around. You never mentioned our Dougie was a hottie.”
I shake my head, caught out. “Marina, he’s been stone-cold dead for more than a century. He’s just about as far from a hottie as he could possibly be.”
I bring the conversation to an abrupt end by jumping out of the van and opening the back door for Artie to climb out. He stretches his long legs and then rounds Babs to help Gran disembark in as dignified a manner as possible for a pensioner in her dressing gown.
“Is that all I need to do? Solve a murder?” I say, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to do something that the police force failed to over a hundred years ago. “I’ll have this thing all wrapped up before dinner, then.”
“You could always ask your Magic 8 Ball,” Marina suggests, then calls out, “Great job today, Dicey!”
Gran lifts a hand in a close approximation of the royal wave as she disappears off in the direction of Blithe Spirits. From the back she looks like a good-time girl doing the walk of shame after coming home on the back of a milk cart, unsuitably dressed for the time of the day.
“I should probably head off,” Marina says, checking the time on her mobile. “Mum called and asked if I could get home early to watch Grandpa.” She hugs me briefly. “Well, that’s our first successful week in business done.”
“High-five for us.” I grin as I step away and look at my watch. “You may as well knock off too, Artie, it’s after three. We’re not going to get much else done today.”
He nods, rolling his shoulders. I hope he’s not checking to see if they’re broken after his rocket-ship-style ride in the back of Babs. “I’ll give you a lift if you like,” Marina offers, digging around in her bag for her car keys. “I’m going that way.”
I watch them stroll away toward High Street. “Hey, Artie. Make sure you come back on Monday,” I call.
He turns around and gives me his goofy laugh. He’ll be back.
All quiet at last, I settle behind my desk for an hour before I clock out with the last two of Nonna Malone’s cannoli and the case file for Scarborough House.
One week down. It’s certainly been interesting and Artie is turning out to be a bit of a revelation, but I really didn’t expect to have to solve a murder inquiry in my first week of business.
I fill my face with cannoli and sigh in the silence, trying not to dwell on the fact that right now Marina’s suggestion of consulting my Magic 8 Ball to see who killed Douglas Scarborough feels like a viable suggestion.
Please, please let me sort this out, I pray, to no God in particular.
I’m not the religious kind, unless there happens to be a Goddess of Sweet Things, because if there is I’ll fall down on my knees and swear allegiance right now.
I’d happily swallow a holy sugar lump and beg for divine assistance.
Please help me, Candy Goddess, because I’m twenty-seven now, and despite my optimism and wisecracking to get through each day, I mostly feel like a kid terrified that I’m going to screw up.
Starting the agency has been brilliant in so many ways, I don’t have enough fingers to count them, but it’s also scary as hell.
I’m afraid of letting Marina and Artie down, of letting the Scarboroughs down, and of letting myself down.
I was never lucky enough to know my dad, but I’m scared of letting him down too.
This whole thing really, really needs to work.