Page 40 of Crazy Spooky Love
I take the high ground and ignore her, and as I lay my hand on the garden gate, she winds the window down and calls out “Remember the rules. No tongues on your first kiss.”
I turn back to give her a filthy look. She responds with a double thumbs-up and blows a huge bubble with her gum whilst Artie sits beside her with his head in his hands. I make a mental note to ask him if he feeds his python live mice and, if he does, to put one in Marina’s handbag for me as revenge.
I pause by the frontdoor of Scarborough House and press my ear to the gap to listen, hoping to glean something unannounced.
“Didn’t your mother teach you that it’s rude to eavesdrop?” Fletch pulls the door wide and catches me stooping. “Of course she didn’t,” he goes on, deadpan. “She was too busy teaching you sleight of hand and how to con old ladies out of their pension money.”
If I allow his barbs to rile me, he wins. “Whereas your mother clearly taught you to be polite to ladies,” I say, smiling sweetly.
“I am polite toladies,” he says inferring that I’m anything but. Marina has definitely read him wrong when it comes to me. He’d place a bullet in my forehead and then a second one through my heart just to make sure I was dead.
“Ah. Miss Bittersweet.” Donovan Scarborough stalks into the hallway and greets me tersely as I walk into it too. “Anything to report?”
I shake my head. “Nothing concrete as yet; although I’m following up on a couple of promising lines of investigation.”
There’s no way I’m going to tell him about the Scarborough brothers with Fletcher Gunn in earshot. Not that I’m ready to tell him anything yet anyway; I’d like to have some more private time in the house before I disclose anything I’ve found out so far.
“That sounds horribly similar to the other chap,” Donovan barks, irritated. “What is it with you mystics? You’re not on a bloody day rate, you know.”
I’m insulted by his rudeness, but also gladdened to hear that Leo is still no further along with things than Iam.
“Will you be here long?” I say, trying to sound diplomatic. “I can always come back later.”
Donovan shrugs. “Up to you. I’m doing a piece for the press about the house being featured on TV, keeps the buyers interested if they think it’s a hot property.”
I give Fletch a skeptical look. “And of all the reporters in all the world, they just happened to send you?”
He shrugs. “Coincidence, huh?”
Coincidence, my arse. He’s probably pitched this piece to his editor specifically so he can keep an eye on what’s going on here at Scarborough House.
Douglas saunters into the hallway like a movie star onto a set and winks at me. “Would the journalist like to hear my views, do you think, Miss Bittersweet? I’m sure the intrigue would help sell papers.”
I shake my head slowly, avoiding eye contact as I’m the only living person in the hallway who knows he’s there. Douglas strolls behind Fletch and flicks the back of his neck. Fletch doesn’t flinch, exactly, just wipes his palm down the back of his head as if he felt the air displace. He glances over his shoulder to check the door is still ajar, and his analytical expression tells me that his black-and-white brain is happy to have found the source of the draft.
“This is fun.” Douglas grins, amused. “What’s this one’s name?”
“Fletch.” It slips quietly from my lips, and I regret it instantly because Fletch looks up at me, surprised, and when I don’t elaborate he flips his palms up and shrugs as if to say, “What?”
“Sorry,” I mumble, trying to ignore the fact that Douglas is now circling Fletch, taking in everything from his deep-blue shirt with obligatory rolled-up cuffs to his slightly inappropriate-for-work jeans, and boots that could do with a polish. It’s a look that once again makes him seem caught halfway between business and pleasure, and one I’m trying very hard not to appreciate.
I watch them for a second. They were born a century apart, but it strikes me that they would likely hit it off under different circumstances. They both have that uber-cool-guy thing going on, that picked-first-for-the-team look that you just can’t fake. I can easily imagine them having a beer and watching the match with much macho backslapping. I’m disturbed by the fact that I’m enjoying this little fantasy, considering one of the guys can’t drink because he’s dead and I’d usually be throwing a beer over the other, rather than drinking it with him.
Hot-cheeked, I decide to get out of there. I doubt if there’s much I can learn about the house from listening to Donovan Scarborough’s sales spiel, so I head toward the staircase. “Actually, I think I left something upstairs last time I was here. I’ll just quickly nip up and grab it, then I’ll get out of your hair.”
Scarborough shrugs, unconcerned, but Fletch watches me with too much interest for my liking. I leave them chatting in the hallway and slip up the stairs, pausing on the landing to get my bearings, and then head up the second staircase, to the attic.
As expected, I find Isaacup there again, this time gazing out of the window.
“You didn’t bring any books,” he says. “I watched you climb from that bizarre-looking van and you didn’t bring any books.”
“I have them in the bizarre-looking van,” I whisper quickly, pulling a small notebook and pen from my pocket. “I couldn’t really come in laden with things while your nephew is downstairs, couldI?”
Isaac huffs in distaste. “He’s not my nephew.”
“What?” I step closer, confused.
“My family blamed me and then disowned me, remember? Well, that works two ways. I disowned them too.”
