Page 9 of Crazy Spooky Love

“Um, what the hell are you wearing?”

Arthur looks down at his immaculately ironed buff-colored overalls and then up at us again. His face is two shades from puce.

“Too much?”

“Unless you’re the actual Dan Aykroyd, yes.” I nod and shoot him a sympathetic smile. “Just jeans tomorrow?”

“I can go home and change,” he whispers. “It’s only two buses.”

Curious mix of granite-tough and butter-soft that she is, Marina caves instantly. “You know what? No need. You’re perfectly dressed to help me paint the van.”

He brightens and holds up a crumpled carrier bag. “I brought sandwiches for my lunch.”

Remembering Nonna’s donuts, I reach for the shiny lime-green tin and peel open the lid. “And Marina brought zeppole.”

I gaze down at the layer of perfectly bite-sized sugared donuts and my teeth ache to bite into one.

“You made those?” Arthur looks at Marina with new awe.

“Her nonna, ” I interject, because she looks as if she’s about to do Nonna Malone an injustice and claim them as her own. “ Grandma Malone to you and me,” I add, when Arthur looks nonplussed.

“For our coffee break,” Marina adds, pointedly taking the tin away from me. I don’t like how that’s becoming a recurring thing.

“Can I have tea at the coffee break?”

Marina, a long-time devotee of coffee strong enough to stand your spoon in, shakes her head at Arthur. “No tea bags.”

Arthur pats his overall pockets until one crinkles, then reaches in and withdraws a little polythene bag containing a supply of tea bags.

“Got my own.”

I note the spark of humor in his eye as he lays them down beside the kettle and I approve ofit.

From Marina’s scowl, she clearly doesn’t. “Why would you do that?”

“Because coffee makes me go bonkers,” he says, turning back around.

Marina shoots me a “let’s give him coffee and see what happens” look, but I just shrug and smile benignly.

“If Arthur wants tea, he can have tea.”

“Nonna wouldn’t approve of tea with her zeppole,” she mutters darkly.

“Well, no one needs to tell Nonna, do they?”

Arthur turns his big hopeful eyes on Marina and once more she crumbles.

“Fine. Not a word to Nonna or we’ll be on store-bought biscuits, and no one wants that now, do they?”

We shake our heads in unison and Marina rolls her shoulders, partially mollified.

It’s been one of her longest-held wishes to perfect the art of cracking her neck for added menace, and I know this would be one of those times she’d have used it to full effect.

These two remind me of puppies establishing the pecking order in their brand-new pack; Marina is husky-like, pretty but lethal, and Arthur would be a leggy Great Dane, clumsy, bashful, and eager to please.

What would I be in this pack, I wonder. Something yappy, probably, and liable to bite.

A Jack Russell comes unflatteringly to mind; snappy, small, and often annoying.

Although…aren’t they also tenacious and utterly unaware of their own limitations, therefore often foolhardy and brave?

I’ll go for that. I want more than anything to be courageous, to make a raging success of the agency.

I’ve spent my entire adult life either trying to fit into the outside world like a square peg in a round hole, or else being absorbed into the family business in a way that makes me feel smothered and childlike.

I’m not a child any longer, and however hard I try, I’m never going to be a round peg.

This agency is my attempt to bang a square hole in the wall to accommodate my square peg; to create somewhere I fit, somewhere I can be me without apology or the need to qualify myself constantly.

This is my pack, and I want to lead them to glory.

Marina opens her handbag and drags out an apron to cover her immaculate outfit. “Come on, Arthur. Babs is not gonna paint herself.”

“Who’s Babs?”

Marina heads for the door. “I’ll introduce you.” She tips her head to one side and studies him. “Do you drive, Arthur?”

Sadness washes Arthur’s features clean of any trace of merriment. “My dad gave me a couple of lessons, before he…No, I don’t drive.”

She nods briskly. “I’ll take over your lessons.”

I don’t miss the naked fear that fills Arthur’s eyes at Marina’s offer.

“Or maybe we could pay for some lessons for you through the business when we’re a bit more on our feet,” I suggest. “It’d be useful for us if you had your license.”

“You’d do that?” he whispers, shiny-eyed.

I make a mental note to sign him up for some lessons as soon as we’re financially able.

I wasn’t lying when I said it’d be helpful if he could drive, although to be perfectly frank, lessons in a modern car will do little to prepare him for the behemoth that is Babs.

More important though, it’s high time Arthur Elliott became someone who passed exams and has a place in the world where he is not surplus to requirements or making up the numbers.

Up until now he’s somehow managed to fall through every crack and miss every party; he may not be a girl, but as of now he’s a valuable member of The Girls’ Ghost-Busting Agency and I intend to make sure he feelsit.

“Don’t let her go crazy on the van, Arthur. You’re officially in charge out there.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and blinks nervously, but I don’t miss the way his shoulders slide back and he stands a little taller. He follows Marina to the door and then pauses and clears his throat so we both look at him expectantly.

“It’d be all right if you called me ‘Art.’?” The words rush from him all in one nervous breath.

I think of his dad, of Big Art, standing right here in the office making a case for his son, and I nod solemnly.

“Art it is.”

“I think I prefer Artie, ” Marina says, looking at him thoughtfully.

For a second, he looks taken aback. I think at first that he’s going to refuse her suggestion, and then I realize that the expression on his face isn’t disagreement. It’s shy pride at being given a nickname by someone other than his mother, for the first time in his life.

“Artie it is, then,” I say, concluding the conversation.

Marina whips the air with her hand, motioning for him to hurry out the door. “Quick smart, then, Artie,” she says. “You need to meet Babs, and then we’re off on a paint-buying mission.”

They disappear, and within a few minutes I hear the unmistakable sound of Babs backfiring and belching her way down High Street.

I’m nose-deep in making preliminary notes about the Brimsdale Road case when someone knocks on the door again.

I know straightaway that it’s not Marina and Artie back already; I’ve been shopping with Marina enough times to know that they won’t be back for a good couple of hours yet.

Besides, this isn’t a meek “Is there anyone in there?” tap, it’s more of a “I know you’re in there so open up right now” rap.

Marina doesn’t knock, and Arthur, Artie, doesn’t rap, so I call out, “It’s open,” from my position behind my desk and wait.

The moment Leo flings the door wide and strides in I regret my open-door policy. If I’d known it was him I’d have hidden beneath the desk until he went away again. As it is, I take the only option available to me and brazen it out.

“I’ve been expecting you,” I say, for all the world like a breezy Bond villain.

“And as if by magic, here I am,” he drawls, throwing his arms out to the sides as he glances around. “No team, I see?”

“No cape or creepy twins, I see?”

He smirks, unrattled. Not that I expect him to be, his business is established and he has a weekly spot on Morning TV. Withdrawing my business card from his shirt pocket, he flicks it over and glances down as if to remind himself of the details.

“The Girls’ Ghost-Busting Agency. Seriously?”

I eye him steadily. “Your point?”

He rubs his hand thoughtfully over his clean-shaven chin. “It’s a bit…low rent?”

“I prefer to think of it as direct, clear, does-what-it-says-on-the-can,” I say, folding my arms. If I were Marina I’d probably prop my feet up on the desk at this point, but given that I’m in Converse sneakers rather than spike heels, I’d look more student-cheap than sassy-chic. “Have you come to wish us luck, Leo?”

He pushes his hand through his lustrous, licorice hair as he laughs.

If I was feeling especially bitchy I’d tell you that it looks freshly blow-dried, but in truth Leo wears it well.

Mother Nature certainly looked kindly into his cradle; he’s striking and strong-featured, gilded with a charisma that assures the camera loves him, as do his growing army of female fans—or his “Darklings,” as they’ve self-styled themselves on social media.

“You’re going to need more than luck, Melody.”

“Is that so?” I load my words with a “been there, done that, don’t bore me with your crap” sigh to ensure he knows that I’m not in the least bit bothered by his opinion.

Dropping into the swivel chair opposite me, he slides my card back into his top pocket and nods.

“Look, I get it,” he murmurs, slouching casually. “You’re not the first chancer to see what I have and want it for yourself.”

I roll my eyes. “Your ego really knows no bounds, does it?”

“My ego? You bulldoze your way into my case and tell my client that you’re better at my job than I am, and you think my ego is the problem here?”

Oh, that rattled him a bit. I lean back in my chair, equally slouchy, and meet his gaze head-on. “Look, I get it. You’re used to being the only kid on the lights-and-camera block and you’re scared of the competition.”