“I hadn’t heard that.” I didn’t pay much attention to the music world outside of the London club scene, but even I’d heard of Eric Marshell, the dashing rock violinist with his black jeans and leather jacket and smouldering good looks who was single-handedly making classical music cool again. “Were you a fan?”
Clyde snorted. “My wife was. She went to his show in London last week with all her girlfriends. She even has a poster of him hanging on the wall above our bed. Imagine fucking your wife while that man’s gargantuan face stares down at you?”
“That’s …” I couldn’t find an appropriate adjective. I was too busy trying to mentally block out the image of my boss going at it with his wife.
“Well, shit happens, whether you hear about it or not. So, Marshell’s dead, but that’s of little concern to me. What is of concern to me is the fact that his elderly mother, Alice Marshell, was found in her house, dead from a heart attack not long after her son’s untimely demise. It looks as if the son was actually on the way to see her when his car went off the road.”
“That’s interesting.” It wasn’t, but I wasn’t sure what I was expected to say.
“It is to you.” Clyde tossed a thin black file across the desk. “Alice Marshell is a client of ours, with quite substantial holdings. Most of her files are from before we went fully online with the system, so it’s a bit of a paperwork nightmare. Eric was her only child, and there’s no husband or other family named in the will, so with Eric gone, dividing up her assets suddenly got a lot more complicated. Unfortunately, she’s been infirm for the last five years, and we have very little of her relevant paperwork here. Someone will have to go down to her home right away and put everything in order before the usual bloodsucking relatives start to swoop in. And I’ve decided that someone is you.”
“Me?” Inwardly, I groaned. Occasionally, in situations like this, the firm needed to send a lawyer out to a client’s home to go through their paperwork and execute the will. Most of our clients were older, and sometimes they had no one left by the time they passed on, so it was our job to figure out what they had, sell off what assets needed to be sold, and place the money where it needed to go. Everyone who’d done it hated it, and usually fobbed it off onto a junior lawyer. As an intern I’d done one such sojourn two years ago, for a dead duke on the Isle of Skye. I’d snuck up Joel, and we polished off the old duke’s wine cellar and had wild sex in the hunting room. But this time around I had no boyfriend and no desire whatsoever to leave London for whatever shithole this old lady lived in.
“Of course I mean you.” Clyde stared at me, nudging the file closer to me with his pudgy fingers. “You’re the only person available to leave today. The senior lawyers all have families, Bob is entertaining clients on his yacht, and Lila has plans all weekend that can’t be cancelled.”
Of course she does, I thought. She has plans to fuck your brains out while your wife is at the opera. Clyde Greyson was a notorious womaniser—he’d slept with most of the women in the office, many of them in the office. I had to be careful opening up supply closets in case I accidentally saw something I couldn’t unsee. But Clyde had never once approached me with the offer to visit a supply closet. Privately, he’d told Lila that “chubby girls” weren’t his type—a slip the bitch had been delighted to spread all over the office when she came back from their most recent weekend dalliance.
If I had a boyfriend or a kid or a size-0 arse, this wouldn’t be happening to me. I racked my brain for an excuse, any possible reason I couldn’t go. “But sir … I have tickets to an event this weekend, and … I have to feed my cat … and um, water my peace lily, and my parents are coming down from Leeds, and—”
“I play golf with your father, remember? Your parents live in Chelsea.”
Damn. “Right, yes, of course. But I do have these tickets for a party—I mean, an opera on Saturday. I can’t go to Crookshollow, wherever that is—”
“It’s only a few hours from London on the train. It’s a lovely little village, the wife and I went for a weekend getaway once. They have a bit of a gimmick with having burned the most witches in England. It’s Halloween there all year round. You’ll love it.”
“It’s sounds delightful,” I said, in a voice that implied it sounded anything but.
“You’ll only be gone a couple of weeks, and of course we’ll reimburse you all your expenses and these opera tickets of yours. Look at it as a holiday in the country.”
I hate the country, I thought, but didn’t say. I had a lot of thoughts in the offices of Greyson, Smithe & Hanley that I didn’t say, mostly because apart from the people I worked with, I actually liked my job, and didn’t want to lose it.
I’d always been kind of weirdly fascinated with death, and how different people deal with it. As a teenager this manifested in a weird goth phase where I read a lot of Poe, wore a lot of black lipstick, and basically frightened several years off my conservative lawyer parents’ lives. At university I gravitated more to estate law than criminal defence, which was what all the cool kids did. The way people divided up their estates said a lot about who they were in life, and what they considered important. In death and wills, the truth is always revealed.
But my interest did not extend to giving up the next two weeks of my life to living in the middle of nowhere while Damon Sputnik partied on without me. My heart sank as my exciting weekend of Operation Shag Damon dissipated before my eyes. I forced a smile, knowing there was no way I could get out of it. “Of course, sir.”
“Excellent. Go home and pack your things. Janice has already booked you a train. It leaves at four. Do a good job on this, Baxter, and there might be something in it for you.” Clyde winked. “Maybe even a something with its own office.”
An office. It was the dream of every junior lawyer to eventually move up the ranks and acquire one of the sought-after private spaces on the second floor. I’d been passed over twice for promotion—beat out by two obnoxious size 0s—and Clyde knew that I was itching to move up and prove to my father that I was successful. He knew that by dangling that carrot in front of me, he could count on my cooperation. The guy may have been pushing seventy, but he was still slick (he was a lawyer, after all).
And that was how I found myself slumped against a rattling window on a Friday evening, clutching the stub of my one-way train ticket to Crookshollow, nowheresville, Middlesex. Population: 11,056 people, 35,000 sheep.
Delightful.
My phone beeped. The businessman sitting across from me shuffled his paper and frowned. I pushed my black-rimmed glasses up my nose and glared right back. What do you expect, buddy? I don’t have a carrier pigeon in my Kate Spade bag ready to fly messages home to my friends. I pulled my phone out of my jacket and checked the message.
It was Cindy, texting to see if we were still on for club-hopping tonight. Cindy and I had been friends since our university days. We’d met at the student pub. I’d been stood up on a date and she’d been dumped by her boyfriend, and we bonded over our mutual heartaches and several G&Ts. Our friendship was mutually beneficial: I helped her study and pass her exams, she introduced me to the London underground club scene and the excitement of picking up random strangers from the dance floor.
Now I worked at the law firm, and Cindy was in advertising, but we still danced every weekend like we had in college. Cindy had just heard about a rave going down at an abandoned warehouse in Camden. Damon’s going to be there. My stomach churned with jealousy as I texted back to say I couldn't come, and that I wouldn’t be going to Damon’s party on Saturday, either.
I knew that, at age 29, I was probably too old for clubbing, but after 60-plus-hour weeks pushing paper around my desk and sucking up to Clyde so he wouldn’t overlook me for advancement for another year, I needed to let my hair down and go a little crazy. And a club—with its pounding music and wild lights —was the perfect antidote. I could float in an ocean of bodies and be part of the group, part of the “in” crowd. It sure beat standing in t
he lunchroom by myself sipping coffee while all of the skinny associates giggled together in the corner.
Cindy texted back, Bummer! I’ll give Tanya your ticket and keep an eye on Damon for you. I’ll make sure his hands don’t wander.
I sighed, and replaced my phone in my pocket. I grabbed my bag out from under my seat and pulled out my sketchbook. I balanced it on my knees, frowning out the window at the lush, green landscape as I flipped open a page and doodled a gnarled, twisted tree, the roots knotted up, the way my stomach felt right now at the thought of what Damon might get up to this weekend without me. I added a snake curling around the trunk, wondering how the design would look as it wound its way up my spine.
I had decided to get a tattoo before my 30th birthday—an enormous piece that covered my back and maybe my shoulders, too. No one at work would need to know it was there—it wasn’t as if any of the male partners were clamouring to sleep with me—but in my party clothes it would stand out. It would mark me as special. And in a club full of perfect size 0s with perky breasts and stomachs full of E, Elinor the dull lawyer had to do something to stand out.
I’d always been a good artist, and had even thought about going to art school at one point. But my father—a high-profile defence attorney, and my mother—a law clerk—had drilled that dream right out of me. My parents would never approve of a tattoo. They didn’t think body art fit with the corporate image—the blank drone with perfectly coiffed hair that they saw as the only way to get ahead in life. When I was a kid, my teachers would hold up my drawings in class, but all my parents ever wanted to know was how my grades were. “Why are you doodling?” my mother would scold me. “Go and do something useful, like read a book or your homework.” “There’s a reason I’ve never met a rich artist.” My dad was fond of saying. “It’s a dead-end career, Elinor. Just work hard at school and forget about your little scribbles.”
Of course, even if I’d pointed out the hundreds of successful artists hanging in the Tate Modern, my dad never would have changed his mind. Instead, because I always wanted to please them, I hid my journals and tattoo magazines under my bed. I did my homework and got good grades and went to the same law school my father attended. I graduated with honours, and started my career in a prestigious London firm. But as I fumbled my way through law school, only half-interested in the work, I watched the art and drama students with envy as they raced around the campus with facial piercings, vintage clothes and beautiful tattoos, yelling “give me a location!” and looking so excited about the future. But of course, they were all probably living on the streets now, whereas I had a job at Greyson, Smithe & Hanley, a nice salary, and an apartment in trendy Camden that only housed a small population of cockroaches. I had even snogged Damon Sputnik. I didn’t have a right to complain about my life.
The tattoo was going to be my one concession to my creative side—my secret rebellion against my sensible, pre-planned life of law offices and beige clothing and boring men. But I was determined that I was going to draw the piece myself, and it had to be just right. My friend Tanya had recently hooked up with a tattoo artist and during a particularly drunken party convinced him to ink some cherry blossoms on her ribcage. They were nice enough, and considering the artist was off his face at the time, only a little crooked. I could have done better than that, I couldn’t help but think every time I saw those droopy blossoms.
But when it came to my own tattoo, I just couldn’t decide on what I wanted. My 30th birthday was fast approaching, and I’d have to make a decision soon. I’d filled an entire sketchbook with ideas, but nothing seemed right. Nothing was good enough, me enough, to be permanently etched into my skin.
Maybe nothing seems right because your body isn’t right, I thought to myself, my stomach churning with loathing. I hated the way I looked right now. I’d always been on the chubby side, but ever since I’d started working at the law firm, I had no time or energy for eating healthily. My gym membership card had sunk to the bottom of my bag, along with twenty Snickers wrappers and a dried up lipstick. I’d gained a couple of extra pounds, and every time I looked at myself in the mirror I heard my mother’s voice in my head, reminding me that fat girls didn’t attract good husbands.
So when I thought about actually having to take off my shirt and lie down in front of a hot, shirtless tattoo artist, (because in my head tattoo artists are always large, muscular, shirtless dudes) my stomach churned even harder. I was supposed to be two dress sizes smaller when I turned 30, but then, if I was two sizes smaller, maybe I wouldn’t need the tattoo.
At least I’ll have plenty of time to work on my drawings while I’m in Crookshollow, I thought, but the thought brought me no comfort. So instead I put my sketchpad away, jammed my iPod earbuds into my ears, and stared out the window, listening to Damon’s latest album and figuring out how I could rescue the situation. How should I play it when I see him again? Aloof and cool, or enthusiastic and flirty? What should I wear?
If only I didn’t have to go to Crookshollow. But it’s only two weeks, and then I’ll be back to my life like nothing had changed. Nothing can happen in two weeks, right?
The train pulled in at a tiny platform. The weather had taken a turn, and it was pouring down outside, the wind pushing the rain underneath the awnings and pelting the waiting passengers with wet misery. I stepped off the train and glanced up and down the platform, but couldn’t see anyone holding a sign for me. It figured that the firm’s local contact ran on country time. This weekend is off to a fantastic start. I pulled the lapels of my jacket up around my neck, and dragged my suitcase toward the parking lot.
The situation in the car park was no less dire. There was only a thin covered walkway around the station entrance, and it had already been claimed by what looked like a horde of elderly American tourists, judging by the flags pinned to their camera bags and the volume at which they were complaining. I was just debating whether I should grab a taxi or call Clyde’s secretary to find out what was going on, when I noticed someone running across the platform towards me. “Mrs. Baxter? Mrs. Baxter?” It was a short, roundish old man in a grey trenchcoat, his black umbrella fluttering in the wind. He extended his hand toward me, his smile friendly, but I noticed he didn’t offer to share his umbrella.
“It’s Miss Baxter,” I corrected him, yet another thing my mother enjoyed reminding me I hadn’t yet accomplished—finding a husband. Was the whole world determined to remind me how crappy my life was this week?
“Oh, my apologies.” His hand was still hanging out there in mid-air, his smile frozen. I reached out and shook it quickly, forcing myself not to jerk away from its cold, clammy touch. My escort had a round face, beady eyes hidden behind thick, tortoiseshell glasses pushed up his nose, and thin white-grey hair that was balding on top. He wore trousers and a threadbare cardigan. He glanced at me nervously, biting his lower lip. “I’m Duncan McLain. I am … was, I should say … a close friend of the Marshell family. I’ve been taking care of Ms. Marshell’s home and affairs while she was infirm, and I’m the executor of her will. I’ve got a cab waiting for us. I can take your bag if you like.”
“I can manage.” I pulled out the handle on the suitcase and followed him across the parking lot. I had just successfully navigated the heavy case over the kerb when someone passing the other way accidentally kicked it. The case slipped into a puddle and sent a spray of cold water up my legs. I gritted my teeth, feeling the icy water soak through my thick stockings, but kept going.
By the time I reached Duncan’s cab, the rain had reduced my pristine suit to a soggy mess. My feet squelched in my new flats. I allowed Duncan to play the chivalrous man and wrestle my suitcase into the boot, while I clambered into the backseat of the cab and begged the driver to turn the heat up. We pulled out of the parking lot, and I got my first look at Crookshollow.
It looked like every other small English village I’d ever visited; a mixture of faded terraced housing, quaint cottages and ghastly concrete office blocks. A few big
box stores and a skate park dotted the area around the station, but as we neared the centre of town, the buildings got more pleasant—mock-Tudor shopfronts bumping against ultra-modern apartments, and more quaint cottages and wisteria-covered walls. Street signs drawn in loopy handwriting, old-fashioned streetlamps hanging over long pedestrian malls.
“Sorry about the cab ride,” said Duncan. “Your office organised a car for you, but there’s been a mix-up at the rental place, and they won’t have one available for another couple of days. But don’t worry, everything in Crookshollow is within walking distance, provided you like to walk.”
“Great,” I grunted in reply.
Duncan took my staring out the window as an interest in the town, so he launched into a monologue about the history of Crookshollow. Apparently, the town had been one of the national centres for pagan worship until witch frenzy had hit and the witch hunters had come in and cleaned the place up, burning more than 200 witches right in the town square. On any other day I might’ve found this lecture fascinating, but I was too tired and cranky from the train ride to care.
I tuned out Duncan’s historical lecture, and focused on the strange array of stores lining the main street of the village. Crystal shops, tarot readers, even an occult bookstore. This is ridiculous. Where am I—Salem?
“Don’t mind all the magical shops,” said Duncan. “It’s just our little theme. You know, for the tourists. Now that we’re not burning witches anymore, the supernatural around here is kind of an attraction. You know, “Welcome to Crookshollow: Come for the Burnings—Stay for the Fabulous Mince Pies.” He chuckled at his own lame joke.
“Where is the house?” I spied a delicious-looking bakery, the window filled with chocolate sculptures and cakes piled high with cream. The sign read Bewitching Bites in loopy handwritten lettering. My stomach rumbled. All I’d had to eat since breakfast was a greasy mince pie and disappointing coffee at King’s Cross, but that was a few hours ago, and it was getting close to dinnertime.
The Man in Black: A Gothic Romance (Crookshollow Ghosts) Page 2