Wildwood (YA Paranormal Mystery) (15 page)

The one that looked to be older moved behind the bench, staring warily at Todd. The other one jammed his hands in his coat pockets and backed about twenty feet up the hill. Todd had thought they were threatening when he'd first seen them from the taxi. Today they almost seemed to be scared of him. "Hey," Todd said as he drew closer.

They both continued to stare at him silently, a haunted look in their eyes.

"You staying at the campsite?"

Still neither of them spoke. Disquiet shivered through Todd. He smelled smoke and glanced around for the source but saw nothing. The boy standing in the road turned and walked away.

"Hey, wait up. I want to ask you some questions." Todd moved to follow. The boy who'd been standing behind the bench was suddenly in Todd's face, blocking his way. Todd stepped back, coughing, eyes watering, the tang of smoke stinging his lungs.

He pressed a hand over his nose and mouth, but he couldn't see any smoke or a fire. He blinked back tears, wiping his eyes. When he could see again, the boy who'd walked away had disappeared. He must have sprinted up the hill to get away so quickly.

He backed up a few paces to distance himself from the other boy. He'd thought they were teenagers, but the guy in front of him looked to be Shaun's age. "Do you know Marigold Turpin?" Todd asked. "I thought I saw you behind her cottage in the woods the other day." The air hummed with tension. Todd's radar suddenly shot off the scale as though the beating hearts of a million animals filled his head.

"Murderer." The word speared through Todd's brain like red-hot wires. He stumbled back, clutching his head, and sank to his knees, his eyes closed. Despite the pain, his hunter's radar kept screaming. Stark terror smeared the air around him like the fear of a trapped animal. A blaring car horn dragged his head up. Todd hadn't even noticed he was in the middle of the road—right on the corner. He was lucky the driver hadn't been going fast.

He scrambled up and made it to the edge of the road where he dropped down on the bench. Shaken and confused, he rubbed his temples. The pain in his head had faded to a dull throb. His senses had settled and he couldn't smell smoke any more.

How had the boys messed with his head? And why had the guy called him a murderer? Or had he meant Marigold was a murderer?

Once he recovered, he trudged up the hill determined to discover where they'd gone. A couple of hundred feet farther up, a huge old house stood on the left. Colonnades framed the front door while rambling clematis, passion flower, and Virginia creeper covered the walls.

The house faced the road, but to its left, the seaward side, a large semicircular terrace overlooked about two acres of mature gardens. An old lady was sitting on the terrace in a wheelchair.

She had turned to watch Todd as he walked up the hill. If she'd noticed him, maybe she'd seen the two boys. When he reached the ornate metal gate in the garden wall, he waved. "Excuse me, did you see anyone come up the road just now?"

Rotating her wheelchair to face him, she cupped a hand behind her ear. "You'll have to speak up, young man. I can't hear you." He repeated his question. She gestured impatiently, beckoning him closer. "Come here. I can't tolerate shouting back and forth like a couple of fishwives."

Todd looked down to unfasten the gate catch. With a shock of recognition, he noticed the Green Man's face carved in the granite gatepost. He pushed back the ivy covering the hinge post and found another carved face. The village seemed to be full of these images. Did the villagers really still worship an ancient Celtic god, or were these carvings just relics from the past?

Admiring the well-kept flower borders, Todd made his way along the gravel path towards the house. His dad would have enjoyed this garden. The variety of foliage and color showed an expert had designed it.

The old woman had gray hair in a bun on the back of her head, pink-framed glasses hanging on a gold chain around her neck, and buttons on her flowery blouse that looked like pearls. Her knees were covered with a red-checked rug like the one Mum kept in the back of the car in case it broke down in the snow.

She held her glasses to her eyes, scanned Todd up and down, and frowned. "You look familiar."

"I'm down for the summer break."

"Hmm." She straightened her blanket. "Repeat your question."

Todd asked about the two boys again, and she shook her head. "I've been here since lunchtime. You're the only person who's walked past."

As she was old, Todd wasn't convinced she was reliable. She might have nodded off in the sun and forgotten. But he didn't think she'd like it if he questioned her.

He started to leave, but when he caught sight of the view, it held him motionless in admiration. Sloping lawns dotted with bright flower beds ran down to banks of multicolored shrubs. Farther on, the white cottages and gray slate roofs of Porthallow formed a pretty scatter in the dip around the harbor. The cornflower-blue sky above was decorated with tiny puffs of white that looked as though they'd been painted in for effect.

"Magnificent, isn't it," the old woman said, following the direction of his gaze. "I've lived in this house for fifty years, and I never tire of the view."

"Your garden is impressive."

"Are you interested in gardening?" She raised her eyebrows.

Todd pushed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and shrugged. He didn't often mention his fascination with plants and gardening. Adults made a big thing about what an unusual hobby it was for a boy, but kids at school just thought he was a sad loser. "Dad was a gardener," he mumbled, turning to go.

"Hold on a moment." The old woman swiveled her wheelchair to face him and put her glasses on properly. "I've only known one other young man of your age who liked gardening. I thought you reminded me of someone. You're not Richard Hunter's son, by any chance?"

The sound of his father's name sliced through Todd's thoughts. He turned back eagerly. "You knew Dad."

"I certainly did." She smiled and held out her hand. "Edna Brown." As Todd shook her bony fingers she asked, "What's your name?"

"Todd Hunter."

"Todd the fox. It suits you. I'm not surprised your father named you after something to do with wildlife. A true child of nature, that boy, if ever there was one." She swiveled her chair around towards the view again and pointed to the flower borders. "Nearly twenty-five years ago, your father helped me design the layout of the annual beds. He certainly had a way with plants, that one. I was sad to see him leave the village." She looked up at Todd and smiled. "What's he doing now? Still gardening, I hope."

Todd stared down at the paving slabs, where ants busily raced in and out of a tiny hole. "He disappeared five years ago."

"Disappeared? How exactly?"

Todd had been asked this question many times. Answering it never got any easier. He stubbed the toe of his trainer into the ground. "One minute he was working in the garden at his job, the next he was gone."

"That's strange." Edna watched him for a moment, and Todd hoped she wouldn't ask any more questions. She pointed at some weeds that had taken root beside the steps to the lawn. "Would you be a dear and pull those annoying invaders for me? I employ a gardening service but, quite frankly, they're useless."

Pleased to do something familiar that he enjoyed, Todd went to the steps and tidied up the weeds. Then, without being asked, he worked along the edge of the terrace, pulling out greenery that had taken root between the slabs of slate. Touching plants, putting his fingers in the soil, any sort of gardening relaxed him.

"Do you have your father's green thumb?"

Todd knew what the term "green thumb" meant, but the question brought back the fearful image from his dream of his hand turning green and sprouting. She must have seen the startled look on his face because she added, "It's an old-fashioned term for someone who has a way with plants."

Todd nodded. "I've always been able to make things grow well, just like Dad."

Rubbing her hands together, Edna said, "I don't suppose you'd like a few hours gardening work to fill the time while you're on vacation? I'll pay you five pounds an hour."

"Five pounds an hour? Wow." Todd sat back on his heels. The money could go towards his savings for when he moved to his own place. "All right."

"Come up here whenever you have the time. I'm always around. Are you staying with your grandfather?"

"Yep. Mum's got a French boyfriend, and he's taken her and my sister to France for the summer holidays. I didn't want to go."

"Hmm." Edna observed him silently for a few seconds, her brows furrowed. "You don't like the Frenchy, do you?"

Todd shrugged, then decided he could be honest with Edna. She wasn't likely to talk to his mum. "Not much. He doesn't like me either. I think it's because I look like dad."

"What does he do?"

"He's supposed to be this fancy chef. He arranges his food in little shapes on the plate."

"Nouvelle cuisine." Edna shook her head. "A ridiculous idea. What's wrong with a good healthy plate of roast beef, vegetables, and Yorkshire pudding?"

Todd decided he liked Edna.

"If you like gardening, you should start your own part-time business now. Then, when you leave school, you can run it full time. Come back to Porthallow and I'll keep you busy." Todd kept pulling weeds while he considered the idea. Edna was right. If he started his own business soon, by the time he left school, he would have saved enough money to move away from home, and he'd already have a job.

"How do you get along with your grandfather?"

"Okay. He's busy most of the time so I don't see him much."

"I think he took on too much by raising your father alone. Why the authorities ever agreed to give a child to a single man, I'll never understand."

Todd stopped weeding. Sweat prickled his face as the sun reflected off the shiny slate. He must have heard Edna wrong. "Didn't my grandma die giving birth to Dad?"

"Oops." Edna put a hand over her mouth. "I think I've just let the cat out of the bag. A cat you should have been told about."

"What do you mean?"

"Your grandfather was never married. He adopted your father." She pursed her lips in thought. "Your father was about four at the time, I believe. It set tongues wagging in the village, I can tell you. And that Pat Bishop was sweet on your dad right from the word go. But he only ever had eyes for Ruby Turpin. She was a beauty, then, like her daughter is now." She gave him a teasing smile. "No doubt you've met the lovely Marigold?"

Todd sat on the top step, the weeding forgotten. Edna rambled on, but her words faded into the background. If Dad was adopted, that meant Grandpa wasn't a blood relation. Why did he lie and pretend his wife had died giving birth to Dad?

Todd's heart pounded like a fist hitting his ribs. Somewhere in the world were his real grandparents—his true blood. And they didn't even know he existed. They didn't want to know. They'd given his dad away.

"Todd, are you all right?" He looked around at the sound of his name, and found Edna had wheeled her chair up behind him. She put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry for breaking the news about your father like that. Your grandfather should have told you years ago. I'm afraid I don't get much chance to talk. Most of the time, I just sit up here and watch the villagers running around down there like ants."

At her words, Todd pulled himself together and remembered his investigation. "You must see a lot from up here."

"I certainly do." She rubbed her hands together. "Even people who are addicted to soap operas would be shocked if they knew what goes on in Porthallow."

"Did you ever see Andrew?"

"You mean Pat Bishop's son? The boy who fell off the cliff?"

At Todd's nod she raised her eyebrows. "He was a holy terror. The way he used to shout obscenities at Mr. Marks shocked me." She pointed at one of the small white cottages that backed onto the bottom of her garden. "That window on the first floor was the boy's bedroom."

Should he confide his suspicions to Edna? She was not quite part of the village and she might be able to give him information. "I'm not sure that Andrew's death was an accident. I've been trying to work out if anyone had a reason to kill him."

Instead of looking shocked, Edna gave him an encouraging smile. "Good for you. I thought the explanation that he fell sounded a bit too convenient. If you want to find out more about Andrew Bishop, go and see Mrs. Keller. She's in a nursing home in Tregarrow. It's about a mile and a half inland. Mrs. Keller's daughter used to be Pat Bishop's best friend."