Page 66 of Crazy Spooky Love
“Grab my Magic 8 Ball, Artie,” I say, and he punches the glove box like a pro.
“What’s the question?” Marina asks, squished between us. “If it’s whether to shag Fletcher Gunn, you don’t need the Magic Ball to tell you ‘no.’ You’ve got me to do that.”
She is very against the idea of any kind of neck-down liaison with Fletch, on account of the fact that my heart is down there and could get broken again.
“Not that,” I say. “I need to know whether to share the case and any associated proceeds with Leo.”
“Put the ball away, Artie.” She scowls. “You don’t need to help Leo out of the hole he’s got himself into with the creepy twins; I’m not frightened of them, and you’re not either.”
“I’m proper terrified of them. They look like they eat babies for breakfast,” Artie drops into the conversation, earning himself a swift jab in the ribs. I can only nod, because now that we know their harmless impression is a front, it’s an astute observation.
“Forewarned is forearmed,” Marina insists, resolute. “We’ve gottheir number now and the gloves are well and truly off. Every business has its rivals, Melody. Yours just happen to be evil Barbie dolls.”
Douglas is waiting for usin the kitchen when we let ourselves in. “You’ve come back, then.” He’s not his usual laid-back self. “I wasn’t sure you would after Isaac pulled his poltergeist stunt.”
“Douglas wasn’t sure we’d return after Isaac’s behavior at the weekend,” I say, for Marina and Artie’s benefit.
“You’re damn lucky that we have,” Marina says, all attitude. “We need to talk to Isaac.”
I shoot her a sharp look. She doesn’t have the luxury of being able to see Douglas, but if she could I think she’d have been a little less agro. “Last time I checked, I talked to the ghosts?”
She lifts one shoulder, unrepentant. “Just sayin’.”
I look at Douglas. “How has he been?”
He glances toward the high kitchen ceiling. “He’s holed himself up in the attic and won’t come down.”
Okay. At least I know where to find him.
“There’s cricket on,” Douglas says. “Will you watch it with me?” I feel a pang of sympathy for him and wish I could just go and crash out on the wingback chairs and watch the game; underneath it all he’s just a guy who wants to watch some sports and share a couple of laughs. I might not be able to stay with him myself right now, but I know a couple of people who can.
I relay the request, and I encompass both Artie and Marina in it because it’s useful to me if they’re kept busy together. I want to go in search of Isaac alone, and I’d much rather do it knowing that they’ve got each other’s back downstairs. This house seemed benign at the beginning of the case, but since then we’ve been left for dead in the cellar, Lloyd has been nothing but unpleasant, and I’ve been caught up in a book-tornado. God, I hope Isaac’s calmed down. Up until Saturday he’d seemed the gentlest, most introspective of thethree Scarborough brothers; hopefully he’s recovered his equilibrium. I guess there’s only one way to find out.
I knock on the atticdoor. I don’t know why because Isaac is hardly in any position to stop me from entering, but all the same it feels appropriate to afford him the courtesy.
He doesn’t answer, so I quietly push the door open and head inside. As I expected, he’s there in his chair, one of the new thrillers I gave him open in his hand.
“I take it you’ve come to ask me about Charles,” he says, without glancingup.
“Yes.”
He slowly closes the book and lays it down, then folds his hands in his lap and studies them. He doesn’t speak again for a little while, and I don’t rush him because it’s obvious that he’s working himself up to something important.
“Well, there’s nothing I can tell you.”
Really? After almost two minutes of complete silence, I confess to expecting something more useful than nothing. God, in two minutes I could have had the most brilliant fantasy involving chocolate eclairs and Spider-Man, and Isaac comes up withnothing? I’m going to have to ask him some pointed questions.
“Was Charles your son?”
He looks up at last. “How did you say you found out about him?”
“We discovered a bundle of your mother’s diaries in the cellar. She recorded his name and his birth date in Hull, and beside it she wrotemy first grandchild.From what I can see she didn’t write anything further about him.”
He lapses back into silent contemplation, and again I wait. “Then you know as much as I do,” he says. “I never saw Charles.”
“Well, no, I don’t know quite as much as you do,” I say, slowly. “Who was Charles’s mother?”
A faraway smile crosses Isaac’s face. “Cilla.” He fills the small word with a whole world of love. “Her name was Priscilla, and she was the most beautiful girl in the world.”
