Mistletoe Mansion (22 page)

I took another bite. The house was so quiet, all I could hear was the dog’s breathing. I still wasn’t quite used to living in a rural cul-de-sac, half-expecting, at any time, to hear a car roar past or someone’s bass-beating music. A detached house was perfect. No arguments coming through the walls – nor the neighbours’ latest video game or telly programmes. And what bliss not to hear the constant tip-tap of footsteps above me. The couple in the flat above Adam’s had laminated floor fitted and I could have sworn the woman lived in stilettos.

Eventually I opened my eyes and put the empty plate back on the bedside table. Groucho lay down against my side. I bet Lily never ate in bed. I imagined her stretched out there, with gloves covering hands slathered in Pond’s cold cream and rollers in her hair. Although she could probably afford to have her hair done daily at a salon, prior to lunch in a fancy bistro with Walter. What a happy couple they must have been. I felt heavy inside again. Was I doing the right thing, refusing to settle down with Adam?

My shoulders sagged and I leant back against the cushions and felt my mouth downturn. Then I jumped. What was that? It felt as if something had tickled my feet. A cold ball hit the inside of my chest. What if it was the evil being that had grabbed my leg? Feeling sick, I gingerly pulled up the duvet and sheets to look. Groucho sat next to me, wagging his tail.

Nothing was there, but a cool breeze snuck around my neck. The familiar White Christmas music started to play. Groucho’s tail still looked like a top-speed metronome. It must have been Walter trying to make me smile.

‘Walter!’ I sat bolt upright, chest now airy and light. ‘Was that you?’ I looked around the room. ‘Um… if it was, tickling my feet, hmm, that’s a bit random!’ I giggled. The music got louder. ‘Walter!’ My feet felt ticklish again. Perhaps I should have freaked out but was too excited at the prospect of him wanting to communicate.

The air became draught-free again now and as still as a Botoxed forehead. There was no hoot of owls, no overhead aeroplanes heading for Luton airport. I cleared my throat. Perhaps I could find out exactly how the house got so messy today. I needed some answers off the old man – or rather ghost. So I had to word my questions carefully.

‘Walter?’ I said softly.

Groucho sank down onto the lush bedcover again but his chocolate button eyes were wide open.

‘It’s me here – Kimmy. But then you can see that, can’t you?’

Nothing.

‘I want to help. You can’t be happy, stuck down here whilst Lily’s waiting at the Pearly Gates.’ I smiled. ‘Terry told me all about you two. Said you were “the sweetest couple”. Knock three times, Walter. Knock three times to let me know you’re definitely here and then we can try to sort things out.’

Hardly daring to breathe, I waited. Oh my God. My head felt dizzy. Three low thuds came from the wall between my room and the front locked one.

‘Thank you,’ I whispered, and took a deep breath. ‘Knock three more times if you made that mess today.’

Three more thuds! I gasped. This was easier than expected.

‘And again if … if…’ I thought back to my favourite episodes of Most Haunted and rubbed my hands together. ‘…if you were really murdered and won’t leave until the culprit is brought to justice.’

Nothing. Okay. Suppose that was a long shot.

‘Were… were you secretly sick of being upstanding in real life, and just want to have some fun before you pass on?’

The dreamy Christmas music wafted into the room and it felt kind of comforting, as if Walter was encouraging me to carry on with other suggestions. I shivered. What a pity ghosts weren’t more tropical.

‘Let’s go back to basics, then. Knock three times if you understand that…’ I swallowed hard. ‘… That you’re dead.’

I almost clapped my hands as he gave three thuds again. Groucho’s head cocked. This reaction from Walter was a good result. At least his haunting, for want of a better word, wasn’t because he still thought he was alive and cross about strangers moving into his home. So, next…

‘Are you finding it hard to leave here because this place reminds you of happy times?’

No reply to that.

‘Okay…um…’ He’d been a charitable man, according to Terry. Perhaps he was here on some mission of goodwill. ‘Have you a message for someone? Is a friend you knew in trouble? Do they need your help?’

Clearly not.

‘Are you plotting to take revenge?’ I said desperately, finding it difficult to imagine this old man caught up in anything dodgy. Yet the music got a little louder, almost as if to say I was on the right track. “Revenge”, perhaps that was a bit strong… ‘Walter – have you got
unfinished business
?’

Three low thuds. A grin spread across my face. What a feature this would make in Starchat
.
Perhaps the famous me would be given a supernatural problem page to write, called “Supernatural Solutions – Kimmy Counsels your Dead”.

Right. Concentrate. Unfinished business, what could that mean? He’d been retired, but dealt with charities and was active in the golf club. I fiddled with my plait.

‘Knock again, Walter, if you owe someone money.’

Nothing.

‘Or someone owes you?’

Silence still, apart from the air around my neck turning positively arctic.

‘The will?’ I said lamely. ‘Knock three times if you aren’t happy with the will.’

Three
loud
thuds! Wow! But he hadn’t got any kids. Who else would inherit apart from his nephew? The nostalgic notes of White Christmas stopped suddenly and I felt warm again. Walter had gone.

My hands shook a little, but I didn’t feel scared. If only he’d stayed longer, I had a zillion questions in my head. He’d been fond of his nephew, hadn’t he? Plus, according to Terry, was
compos mentis
, until the end. He wouldn’t have signed anything without reading the small print.

I stared into space, different scenarios running through my head. If Mr Murphy wasn’t supposed to get everything, then who else would benefit? Oh my God… Perhaps Walter and Lily weren’t such a perfect couple and he’d had a lovechild who the old boy had originally provided for. Or maybe the couple had been brainwashed by some religious cult and had intended everything to go to them.

After what seemed like hours of thinking, I could only conclude that, behind closed doors, Mr Murphy was a bully and had forced Walter to sign a new document – or had forged a new, secret copy. Perhaps he’d charmed Walter into altering the will and now the old man could see Murphy for the conman he really was…

I clapped my hands. Of course. Thursday morning the nephew was visiting – the perfect opportunity for Walter to show his true feelings and for me to find out more!

Chapter 17

I looked across the wicker table at Terry and shook my head. He sucked in his cheeks, for one moment making his chubby face look almost chiselled. We both knocked back a mouthful of tea as a fly circumnavigated the inside of the summerhouse before deciding my buttered toast wasn’t interesting enough. Jess’s bicycle was gone so she’d obviously made it into work. Terry had rapped loudly at the front door just after nine and woken me up. Following my late night chat with Walter, I’d still been asleep. Groucho had disappeared from my bed and when I came down his chocolate button eyes had begged for a plate of biscuits.

I pulled up my blanket. Terry did the same. We grinned at each other. I’d insisted we breakfast outside, even though it was December, as once I’d left Badgers Chase there’d be little opportunity for me to dine “al fresco” (listen to me!).

‘Poor Melissa,’ I said and stared once again at the tabloid before my eyes. The morning breeze crept in through the open doors and lifted the top corner of the newspaper. I adjusted the pretty embroidered cushion behind my back, feeling nice and comfy in my jogging trousers and one of Adam’s jumpers I’d, ahem, “accidentally” packed. I looked up for a moment. Plants swayed in the full borders and a posse of nearby starlings chirped. Everywhere was green. The air smelt fresh. My ears homed in on nature’s sounds. In that moment, Luton and Adam could have been in another universe.

I gazed at the article again. Jonny? In the back of a taxi? Snogging some mystery blonde? Terry had brought over his morning paper, bursting with how he’d had to pick his way through the crowds of journalists and clicking cameras all around Badgers Chase. For once, the paparazzi rumour mill had got it right. For the hundredth time, I focused on the photo of the young woman who was partially hidden as the golfer, back to the camera, kissed her. Her arm was wrapped around his neck and from her wrist hung a silver bracelet with two charms – a mini Eiffel Tower and an engraved heart.

‘Just look at those headlines,’ I muttered, stomach squeezing at the thought of Melissa upset. They’d come straight from the stuff nicked out of Melissa’s wheelie bin: “Jonny on Drugs for Extra-marital Bonking Backache” and “Pregnant Melissa’s Curvy New Figure”. At least there was no photo of her falling over Walter’s fence. Nor any of me in disguise – what a shame.

‘More toast?’ I asked. Terry had eaten my breakfast.

‘Apparently the photographers have spotted him with this woman before,’ said Terry, still glued to the newspaper, looking kinda cute in a rainbow coloured bobble hat. ‘Do you think Melissa knows who she is?’

Before I could answer, footsteps approached from the garden path. We looked at each other. Maybe that was her.

‘Quick! Shove that paper behind your cushion,’ I said and hurried out of the summerhouse and onto the lawn. Groucho almost tripped me up as he stopped chasing an imaginary cat and ran to greet…

‘Luke?’

‘Very perceptive,’ he said and bent down to stroke the dog.

I failed to think of an equally sarcastic reply.

‘Late night?’ He stood up and came nearer to me, the corner of his mouth twitching. He turned up the collar of his anorak. I willed myself not to look at his appealingly tight jeans that asked the question, how difficult would they be to get off?

‘The side gate was left open,’ he said. ‘One journalist wouldn’t leave me alone – told her cameraman to zoom in and asked me to take my top off. Can’t say I blame her.’ He grinned. ‘You’re not going to throw something at me, are you? At least there aren’t any plastic Christmas trees in the back garden. I thought I’d be safe, unless you’ve armed yourself with a spade.’

‘Ha, ha,’ I said and tried to smooth out the creases from my jogging bottoms.

‘Morning, sonny.’ Terry waved at Luke as he walked past, manbag over shoulder, colourful bobble hat slightly crooked.

‘Hi, Terry. Noticed your front guttering is hanging a bit low. Could have been that storm we had the other night. Would you like me to check it out later?’

‘Really? You’re a diamond.’ He clapped Luke on the back. ‘Better get going, Kimmy. See you tonight, seven o’clock sharp. Don’t worry, I’ll show myself out.’

Luke headed towards the bottom of the garden. ‘Not too much milk in my tea, Kimmy. I’ll be at the vegetable patch.’

I followed him to the well-ordered patch, and admired the neat row of poles and plants. ‘This isn’t some motorway caff, you know.’

‘Oh well, if you don’t want me to clean out your hot tub for your party tonight…’

Ah yes. I’d forgotten his odd offer to help me and my chest warmed a titch. He bent over to uproot a couple of leeks and handed them to me. There was that weird friendliness again – but I was grateful for the veg and might make soup for lunch. Then I headed back towards the kitchen, but something grabbed my leg and wound itself around my ankle. My leeks fell to the lawn with a thud as I tripped and fell. A piercing pain shot through my foot.

‘Get off me!’ I shrieked to whatever it was. Perhaps that evil spirit had morphed into a snake. If only I could grab a leek and whip the demon senseless.

‘Jess must have pruned back those overgrown roses,’ said Luke, already by my side, on his knees. ‘You’ve trodden on a small branch and your foot’s bound up in the middle of a pile of hose. Didn’t you see it?’

Before I knew it, he helped me stand up. To steady myself, I reached down and leant on his head. The tousled bedroom hair slipped between my fingers whilst, still on his knees, he untangled me. It was silky smooth and long enough to grab hold of.

‘A couple of large thorns have gone through your sock, into your ankle,’ he said. ‘Where are your tweezers?’

‘It’s all right.’ I limped towards the patio doors. ‘I can manage.’ But he caught me up and slipped an arm around my waist. His fingers gently spread around my ribcage and for some reason my stomach fluttered. We went through the patio doors and into the kitchen.

‘In your bedroom, are they?’ he said and eased me onto a stool.

‘On the bedside table,’ I mumbled. Much as inflexible me hated to admit it, I found it difficult enough just to paint my toe nails, so Luke’s assistance would be useful. Within minutes Luke had returned and knelt on the floor again. Gently, he dug out the thorns and massaged the skin with his thumbs. Tingles ran up and down my legs. Thank God I’d shaved again recently, otherwise he’d have been the one in pain.

‘Done,’ he said, finally. ‘I’d wash your ankle, if I were you; kill off any bacteria.’

‘Yes, Dad,’ I mumbled. We smiled at each other and he headed outside again. So, today it was friendly Luke, not the one who was as irritating as nettle rash. Quickly I showered, changed into jeans, a better fitting jumper and my gold parka. Then I returned to the summerhouse, hair curled from a night’s sleep, loosely tied back. Whilst washing, a slight panic had set in. I needed to brainstorm ideas for Saffron’s hen party on Friday. The bottom of the garden was as good a place to clear my head and work as any, and Luke was busy dealing with the hot tub now.

Once settled, I gazed around. Utter heaven. The nearest you got to fresh air in Adam’s flat was opening the front windows onto a road reeking of take-aways and petrol – whereas the smell of Walter’s garden reminded me of a nature trail we once did at school.

Pen in hand, I stared at the blank piece of paper in front of me. Hen nights – “pink”, I wrote down. “Girly”. “Saucy”. “Fun”. My pen hovered for a moment before I roughly sketched some willies and boobs. I could make little black whips out of liquorice, and marzipan handcuffs. I reckoned Saffron would love them – unless, for appearances’ sake, she’d like to come across as more classy. So as well, I jotted down “roses”, “glitter”, “hearts” and “chocolate”. Saffron wanted a personal touch, so I’d spell out her sister’s name in icing – the word AMY was just short enough to fit on one bun.