My finger hovered over the CALL button on my phone. Clyde’s number flashed on my screen. I knew I had to do it, but for some reason, I kept hesitating.
Could it be, sneered Devil’s Advocate Elinor, that you don’t want Clyde to get the police involved and send down one of the senior lawyers to take over, sending you back to London and away from Eric?
Shut up. I shot back. I’m done with Eric. I’m over him. I want to get out of Crookshollow as fast as possible.
To prove it, I punched the CALL button. Clyde’s secretary answered. She informed me that he was out for a long lunch with Lila. Of course he is. “You could call him on his mobile phone?” she suggested.
“No, that’s fine, Charlotte. Please just tell him to call me as soon as he returns.”
I hung up the phone and tossed it on the desk. Spinning around in the chair, I stared up at those bookshelves, trying to divine something of Alice Marshell from the tomes she had collected and cherished. It was such a vast and fascinating collection of political writing, philosophy, science, and great literature. My gaze fell on one particular book.
Swann’s Way. It was the book that had fallen on my head when Eric first surprised me in the study. Not really sure what I was doing, I reached over to the shelf and pulled out the book. As I did, a piece of paper fell out from behind it and fluttered to the floor. It was a letter, covered front and back with rows of neat handwriting.
I picked it up and inspected it. “The revised will and testament of Alice Marshell.”
Holy shit.
Before I read any further, I pulled out one of Alice’s ledger books and compared the handwriting. It was identical. This was the real thing, written in Alice’s hand. The corners of the paper were crumpled from being smushed behind the books. I checked the date in the corner – she’d written this two years ago, and even had it witnessed by two nurses. So why was it stashed behind the bookshelf, instead of on file at the firm?
My hands trembling with anticipation, I read on.
Eric, my darling Eric. I have mistreated you. I have held you guilty for your father’s sins. And now I am fading, and you are too angry and too busy being successful to concern yourself with an angry, bitter old woman who once tucked you in at night. I don’t blame you. My deepest regret is that I never told you how proud I am of everything you’ve accomplished.
I want you to have everything. You are my son, and everything I have worked for belongs to you. Take my money and use it to fund your music, to pay for your tours, to touch more people with your beautiful mind. Don’t let Duncan push you around or contest the will. I left him a nice sum when I drafted the will, but he has been stealing from my accounts for years now. He doesn’t think I know, but I do. He will try to steal from you, too. Don’t be hard on him, for he has looked after me well, but he’s had enough of my money.
If for any reason you don’t want or can’t accept the money, then please take it and start a scholarship fund for music students. Let another young person full of hope and talent get the right start in life. Don’t let Duncan or any of my other friends or family members get their hands on it. They have more than enough.
I love you, and I am sorry.
Alice
I set down the letter, my mind reeling. Alice Marshell had sought forgiveness in the only way she knew how, through her money. The ledger book.
I grabbed the black book from the bottom of the stack. It was the book I’d picked up on one of my first days in Crookshollow. I hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, because I didn’t know anything about Eric or his mother. It hadn’t seemed important. I’d completely forgotten about it until now.
I flicked through the pages, stiff with decades of paste. It was filled with hundreds of clippings about Eric and his music, from tiny three-line reviews in underground music magazines of their early shows to big double-page spreads and in-depth interviews in the popular music press.
Even though they weren’t speaking, even though he believed she despised him and all he represented, Alice Marshell had followed Eric’s career. She’s been there with him for every award, every platinum album, every sold-out show. She loved him. She cared.
Tears welled in the corners of my eyes. Wait until I tell Eric …
Wait, what am I talking about? I can’t tell Eric. I’m not talking to him ever again. The resolution didn’t fill me with righteous anger the way it had before. I wish it were different. Maybe he really wasn’t lying about the drugs being his ...
No, don’t do that, I told myself. Don’t you start feeling sorry for him. So what if he had a shit life? So what if his mother tried to repair the damage on her deathbed and he doesn’t know that? Everybody has problems, and they don’t go drowning their sorrows in cocaine to forget them. Unless they’re Eric Marshell, and then they get license to do whatever they want because they’re rich and famous and have oh-so-deep and tortured artist souls ...
The righteous anger had returned. Good. I turned a page in the ledger. There was Eric, frowning at the camera as he posed with his violin. He was shirtless, and that dragon tattoo curled around his bicep, the piercing eyes of the beast mocking me, taunting me ...
“Is something the matter?” I jumped at the sound. It was Duncan, his rotund head peeking from around the study door.
“Oh, you startled me.” I slammed the ledger shut, trapping the letter between the pages.
“You looked as if you were lost in thought,” he said. “I was just wondering how your work was coming along? Many of Alice’s relatives and friends will be here for the funeral. I’d really like to be able to tell them what they can be expecting from the estate.”
“That’s not really the way it works, I’m afraid.” I said, suddenly struck by an idea. “I’ve actually just found something that might cause some delays.”
“Oh yes. What’s that?”
I handed over the letter. Duncan scanned it. I watched his face carefully, the way his eyes narrowed, and his mouth turned down at the corners. He wasn’t happy.
“But this isn’t legally binding, surely?” He said. “She … she wasn’t of sound mind when she wrote this. That’s obvious by the fact she’s accusing me of stealing from her. As if I would do such a thing! And there are no witnesses—”
“Those two nurses signed there,” I pointed. “And this document is clearly in her handwriting. In my business we call this a holographic will. It does complicate matters. I’m sorry, Duncan—”
“This is insane,” Duncan mumbled. “Even in death that punk Eric is taking from her.”
“What do you mean?”
“You never met him, so I can understand how you might be suckered in by the way the media portray him, but Eric Marshell was no angel. He was sulky and morose and he didn’t care about anyone but himself. He never appreciated what Alice did for him, even while she was mourning the loss of her husband. Eric shunned her and everything she stood for, to go off and follow in the footsteps of the lowlife father who’d abandoned him, leaving her by herself while her mind rotted away and—” His voice cracked.
“I hardly think—” I started to say, but Duncan was on a roll. His eyes had this weird, far-off look.
“She was a saint, that woman. A saint! She never remarried, you know. She considered that once you were married, you were wed for life, even though her no-good excuse for a husband took advantage of her to fund his laziness and then ran off with his conductor. And there were men, you know. Men who would have taken care of her, who would have stood beside her. Men who would—”
Suddenly, I understood. Duncan loved Alice Marshell. He loved her more than anything, with a fierce kind of love that made him both devoted and delusional. In some twisted way, he’d taken that money because he’d felt as if it were his too, because they were one.
“Please, Ms. Baxter,” Duncan’s hand clamped around my arm. “You won’t … turn me in, will you? I only did it for her. I needed money so I could stop working, so I could spend more time with her …”
“Duncan,” I said kindly, unclasping his fingers from my wrist. I met his gaze with my own, pulling him back to the present. “I didn’t mean to upset you. There is still a ton of stuff to organise before the funeral. Perhaps you should see to the caterers?”
He nodded slowly. “You’re right. Thank you, Elinor. You’re a kind girl.” He patted me on the arm, and shuffled away, his kindly old face tight with fear.
***
The evening was the hardest. I sat at the desk in Alice’s study and flicked through the pages of the Ghost Symphony forum on my laptop. Eric’s fans were swapping stories about his life and posting outraged screencaps of the eBay auction and arranging meetups before Saturday’s funeral. I couldn’t put on Eric’s music, and I didn’t feel like any techno, so the only sound in the house was the tick of the grandfather clock in the hall, the occasional creak of the floorboards settling, and the crashes and thumps coming from the attic, which I was trying to pretend I couldn’t hear.
Bianca took me out to the local pub for dinner (and no drinking), which took my mind off Eric and Marshell House for a few hours, but then I had to come back to that big, creaking house, with the angry ghost of a drug dealer storming around the attic.
And just when I thought life couldn’t get any worse, the doorbell rang.
Wondering how many more flower arrangements the marquee could possibly hold, I set down my tea and dragged my sorry body to the door. I flung it open, and was greeted by a sight that turned my stomach.
There was Cindy, looking like she just stepped off a runway, her white-blonde hair sitting on her shoulders in perfect waves. She wore a pair of tight black leggings and a printed sundress that clung to her thin body and perky breasts like … like a blinking sign that declared nothing in the world is ever fair. A leather jacket was slung casually over her shoulder to ward off the evening’s chill. How she looked like that after a long car ride, I just couldn’t fathom. I suddenly felt extremely frumpy and unattractive in my jeans and red shirt.
“Ellie, I’m so glad to see you,” she cooed, throwing her arms around me. She smelled like fresh perfume and roadside takeaways. “I’m here now, so the fun can begin. And look, I’ve brought someone for you to meet.”
Oh. For the first time, I noticed the towering form standing behind Cindy. In the midst of Eric’s drama, I’d completely forgotten about that …
Cindy stepped aside. Damon Sputnik stood on the porch, looking even taller and more imposing than usual. He wore baggy Adidas trackpants, white sneakers, and a pair of silver dog tags dangled from a chain between his impressive pecs. My eyes fell immediately on the bare, muscled shoulders bulging from his dirty white vest—shoulders so broad they could throw a girl like me around as if she were a rugby ball. His odd, abstract tattoos ran down both arms and even covered his palms and knuckles. If this was two weeks ago, his presence would have made my insides turn … no, actually, they were still twisting. Damon Sputnik was still damn hot.
Only now, he was Cindy’s boyfriend, and they were the hottest it couple in London. I felt my cheeks flush as I remembered how excited I’d been about our drunken snogging session only two weeks ago. How juvenile to hang so much of my hope on that one meaningless event. I was never going to have a guy like that. He was out of my league. All I got was drug-dealing lowlifes.
“Hi,” Damon said in his clipped Russian accent. He managed to look both impossibly cool and embarrassed at the same time. Of course he’s embarrassed. He doesn’t want to be bunking up with Cindy’s chubby friend in some haunted house in the sticks. He wants to be clubbing until 5am and popping multi-coloured pills until he honestly believes he’s Spiderman.
“Nice to have you here, Damon. I’m Elinor Baxter,” I said in a businesslike tone, holding out my hand for him to shake, hoping he didn’t notice the dark flush on my cheeks.
“Nice to meet you,” he said stiffly, shaking my hand with a firm grip. His eyes flicked briefly over me, and then darted away again. He didn’t recognise me. For six months I’d been hanging onto this guy’s every word and song, and he wouldn’t have even been able to pick me out of a line-up.
Wonderful. I needed to feel even more like an idiot today.
“Can we come in?” Cindy’s tone was chipper, but her eyes were pleading with me.
“Sure,” I held open the door. Cindy strutted in, Damon behind her, holding a backpack and Cindy’s stuffed-to-bursting pink Louis Vuitton suitcase. “You’ll have to excuse the chaos. There’s a lot of prepare before the funeral tomorrow.”
I led them upstairs to the master bedroom, getting a sick sense of glee when I saw Damon’s eyes bugging in horror as he took in the flower-covered wallpaper and furnishings.
“It’s very … ”
“This is the best room in the house,” I said, walking across and opening the drapes. “I love these gorgeous round windows, and you’ve got a view of both the front and back gardens, see? Now, why don’t I leave you two to get naked … I mean, unpacked. I’ll just be down in the study if you need me.”
“Thanks,” Damon muttered, turning over a ceramic cat statue in his hands. He looked like he didn’t know what to do with himself. Cindy tried to grab my arm as I left, but I darted out of reach. Let her stew for a bit longer. She deserves it.
Smiling to myself, I raced down the stairs and into the study. If Cindy was going to parade Damon around in front of me and expect me to act as if nothing was wrong, then I was going to take perverse pleasure in making her weekend as uncomfortable as possible. I’d earned that right.
I flipped idly through the heavy house key ring, searching for the smallest keys. I’d realised that some of the keys might open the desk drawers, so I was trying them all in the tiny lock. One the fifth key I had success, and popped the drawer open only to find a small flash of Scotch and two opened packets of boiled toffees. That’s a bit of an anticlimax. The second drawer held some insurance papers I already had in electronic copy, and the third held more toffees.
I was just about to open the next drawer when I heard the door creak open behind me. It was Cindy. She pulled the door shut behind her, and faced me with a guilty expression on her face. “Elinor, I’m sorry.”
I looked up from my files and beamed at her, admiring the way my grin made her face fall further. “Sorry about what?”
“Sorry for bringing Damon along and not telling you about it. I just … I didn’t know how to tell you, so I didn’t. That was sucky of me but … maybe I’m a sucky friend.”
“Yeah, you kinda are.” Cindy cringed when I said that.
“It’s just … you’ve been so cut up about Joel and I thought your little crush would help you get over him. But of course you being you, you took it so seriously. It was sweet but way too intense. Damon was never going to be in for that, and I just …”
“Yes, that’s fine.” I made a big show of shuffling through the papers on my desk. “I’m quite busy, Cindy. So if you could leave me alone so I can get on with things—”
“Elinor, can we please talk about this?”
“Cindy, it’s fine. Really.” I looked up and grinned at her again, just to show her how fine it was. She looked stricken, desperate. I don’t think I’d ever seen cool, collected Cindy look so out of sorts. She was positively squirming. The sight of it gave me a jolt of pleasure. It felt good to be the one calling the shots for once.
“You have to understand,” she stammered out. “I didn’t intend for this to happen. I was only trying to keep an eye on Damon for you, but I think he took my hovering for interest and … well …” she giggled nervously. “Just look at him. He’s gorgeous. I tried to be a good friend, really I did. But Damon’s pretty hard to resist. And it wasn’t like you were having much success with him, so I figured it didn’t matter if I took a stab.”
“And you thought it would be a swell idea to just bring him up here for the weekend so I could see firsthand how happy the two of you are?” I laughed, but this time it came out a little hollow. �
��I mean, you could have just waited until I came back to London to reveal this little secret, but instead you come up here to torture me with your happiness. What kind of friend does that?”
“I tried to talk him out of it, but Damon wanted to go to the funeral. A lot of record executives will be there, and it could be a really good place for him to network.”
“Damon wants to network at a funeral?” Wow. Subtle. I was actually glad I hadn’t landed the guy. He was starting to sound like a real winner.
“I wanted to tell you myself over a wine when you got back. But Damon was so set on coming and I couldn’t tell him why we couldn’t go without letting him in on our secret operation. I didn’t want to embarrass you, is all. See, I do think about you.” She looked at me like a hopeful puppy.
It was strange. The dynamic between us was completely altered. The old Elinor wouldn’t have even confronted Cindy about this. She would have listened patiently while Cindy explained the whole thing, and by the end of it she’d have been asking Cindy to forgive her, as if she herself had been that bad friend. But the new Elinor didn’t let anyone – least of all her supposed best friend – walk over her without calling them out on it.
I sighed. “I really wish you hadn’t bought him with you. It was a very insensitive thing to do, Cindy. That is not necessarily out of character for you, but I would have thought my best friend would realise how much this would hurt me.”
Her eyes went wide. She hadn’t expected me to say that. I admit, I hadn’t expected to say something like that, either.
“Luckily,” I continued, (this standing-up-for-myself thing got easier the more I did it), “Some things have happened over the last week that made me realise I don’t want Damon Sputnik anymore. So you can have him, if he truly makes you happy.”
Paranormal Magic (Shades of Prey Book 1) Page 118