Page 68 of Crazy Spooky Love
I nod at Marina in a job-well-done fashion and then pick up a pen and tap it on the desk as I launch into my case summary.
“Right. So here’s where we’re at. On Saturday, Scarborough gave me one week only to finish solving this case. It’s now Tuesday, which gives us five days, maximum. The way I see it, the brothers are trapped in the house because of the unsolved murder. Douglas is self-explanatory, one of his brothers plunged a knife into his back. That’s a damn fine reason to stick around.” Marina and Artie stare atme, hanging on my every word. “I don’t struggle to see Isaac’s reasoning either. He absolutely refuses to let go until he clears his name. So far, so straightforward.” I’m encouraged by their nods. “Lloyd though…he’s the complicated one in this. He stalks around the house in that damn silk dressing gown, straight-backed and haughty, glaring at everyone as if it’s the last place he wants to be.”
That’s my issue with Lloyd, and the whole case really—surely if Lloyd wanted to leave he’d just fess up to killing Douglas and then they could all be on their way. It just doesn’t make any sense. “So I vote that we step up the search to find the knife used to stab Douglas in the back. My gut instinct is that it’s still in that house somewhere, and our mission now is to recover it and hope that something about where and how we find it triggers the dominoes to start falling.”
Marina laughs lightly. “I was with you right up to the dominoes thing.”
“Too much?”
“You don’t need to go all Agatha Christie to impress us,” she says, sliding her fingers into the tin to sneak me a cucidati cookie without rousing Lestat. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re doing a pretty damn amazing job just as yourself.”
I take the cookie and bite it, glad forever that I met Marina Malone.
People can say what theylike about Babs, but as far as I’m concerned, she’s one of the team. By rights she should be either languishing in a scrapyard or else turned out to pasture in the care of some old boy who’d polish her hubcaps for her, but instead she’s putting in a full shift for us every day. Right now we’re all three strapped in and juddering at the traffic lights on our way to Brimsdale Road, and although it feels a bit like we’re working through a Power Plate session, I have no doubt that Babs will make sure we get to our destination, be it Scarborough House or actual Scarborough.
Marina sits beside me scanning the list Isaac made of potential places to look.
“The cellar alone is going to take the week,” she muses, chewing a hangnail and frowning.
“I vote we leave the cellar until last.” I’m not being a scaredy-cat, but the thought of going back down there again fills me with trepidation.
Marina nods and murmurs a distracted, “No arguments there,” as she folds the paper up and, on autopilot, slides it into her bra beside her phone.
“Mum said she’ll ring me if she finds anything interesting about Charles,” Artie chucks in from Marina’s other side. “Although she’s out this morning, she sings at the old people’s home round the corner on Tuesdays.”
I mull on this. Both Marina and I come from huge, eclectic families who are larger than life and always fighting for the limelight. In contrast, Artie’s family unit seems to be the exact opposite—quiet and unassuming, a tight, small circle of three, or two now, who look after each other and other people without fanfare or the need to be acknowledged.
“All quiet,” Marina says, gazingintently through the windshield at Scarborough House ten minutes later.
“That’s something.” I gather everything we need to take inside. Black bags for any mess we make, a hammer and chisel in case we need one, and some of our trusty latex gloves.
Artie watches me as I tool myself up. “You do realize that you’ve assembled the classic murderer’s kit there, right?”
“I hope you’ve got twin-sized bin liners,” Marina says darkly as we tip out onto the footpath and head around the back of the house to let ourselvesin.
Chapter
Twenty
Lloyd is sitting at the kitchen table when we go through, and he quickly drags a newspaper across to hide the fact that he’s been writing in the Polly Pocket diary. None of us comment on it; Marina and Artie were deep in conversation and didn’t notice the brief movement, and I can see the pissed-off expression on Lloyd’s face and it’s anything but welcoming.
“Good morning, Lloyd,” I say, as much for the others’ benefit as for his.
“Isaac tells me you found our mother’s diaries.”
I lay my makeshift murderer’s kit out on the table and nod slowly. “We did.”
“Well, I want them back. They weren’t yours to remove from this house.”
He’s right, of course, but they aren’t his either.
“The diaries now officially belong to Donovan Scarborough, and as he’s the person who’s employed me, I don’t think he’ll mind.”
Lloyd huffs. “Without wishing to speak ill of the dead, our mother was quite, quite unhinged. Her word isn’t to be relied upon. I don’t expect anyone’s told you that she killed herself, have they?”
I catch my breath, shocked. Agnes Scarborough killed herself? God, that poor, blighted woman.
“When?” I whisper.
