Dead just like Joel.
I ran upstairs and slammed the door to Eric’s room. I threw myself on my bed. The mattress groaned beneath me, and my body bounced against that hard object that was stored under there. Ouch. I made a mental note to remove whatever it was before I went to sleep again.
But I couldn’t move. I could still feel the lingering warmth of Eric’s touch against my skin. The smell of him wafted around me. For these few short hours Eric had had a smell—aged leather and black musk and the sweat of the stage lights. He’d never had a scent before. It was intoxicating, and also horribly sad.
The thought of taking off my clothes, of showering and washing off my makeup filled me with dread. Right now I was in desperate need of some sleep. I just wanted to shut out the world and this whole stupid situation for a while. My whole body ached from tiredness and from the rigours of the night before. I kicked off my shoes, closed my eyes and waited to sleep to take me.
But it never did. My head swarmed with thoughts of Eric—his touch that set my body on fire, the hurtful things he’d said, the way he’d looked at me when he saw that I was leaving. I lay with my head in my pillow, the tears frozen on my face, for some time. The room around me grew lighter as the sun rose, but I didn’t move. I didn’t cry. I didn’t sleep. I just lay still and tried not to think. If I thought for too long, I started to dwell on how I’d made such a mess of things.
It was only three days ago that I’d arrived in Crookshollow. Three days ago I’d had a crush on a hot Russian DJ, a promising career at an upscale London law firm, and, so far, I hadn’t needed to sleep with my disgusting boss. Now, I was living in a haunted mansion, shagging a ghost, chasing an obsessed murdering psycho fan, listening to violin rock music, and going on a date with a drummer who had more facial piercings than I had pairs of shoes. Who was this person I’d become? I hardly even recognised myself. I felt like a character from a movie—the one everyone is laughing at because she messed up so bad.
Except … Allan. He didn’t know about any of this. Maybe I could salvage something there.
My date was tonight. I needed it to go well. Really well. I needed Allan to make me forget all about Eric and what we’d done last night and the hateful, hurtful words we’d exchanged this morning. But this was crazy. I had packed a suitcase for two weeks’ bumming around an old house. I had no date-ready clothing, no decent makeup. I debated calling Cindy, but it wouldn’t do any good. She’d be at work, and wouldn’t be able to get back to me until the evening, long after I required her sage advice.
What did one even wear on a date with a hot, pierced drummer? At least now I had something to distract myself with. I gave up on the promise of sleep, and pulled myself out of bed. I flung all my clothes out of my suitcase, but nothing felt right. Panic was starting to settle in. I knew I was putting entirely too much pressure on this date, but I could still feel the warmth of Eric’s fingers against my skin. I was dangerously close to completely losing myself for him, and I had to put a stop to that.
Yep, I was right. I had nothing but prim business suits, baggy jeans and some ratty sweaters. I needed something hot to wear. Something that didn’t make me look like a boring lawyer, or a boring lawyer on her day off.
I remembered some of the funky boutiques I’d seen on the main street of Crookshollow, the racks of bright clothing hanging outside some of the crystal shops. I had hardly spent any money since I’d arrived in Crookshollow, thanks to the company credit card and the fact there was nothing to do here except talk to ghosts and solve murders. Perhaps it was time I did some shopping.
I glanced at the clock. 6:42am. Nothing would be open for another few hours. I needed something to occupy my time until then. And unfortunately, although I wanted nothing more than to hide away from Eric forever, the only thing that could distract me was my work, which was all down in the office.
I pulled a sweater over my shirt to cover against the creeping cold of the house (and also the fact that I wasn’t wearing a bra and a very important button had broken), and crept out of the room and across the landing. I scanned the staircase and empty entrance hall, but couldn’t see Eric anywhere. Good.
I descended the stairs slowly, wincing every time a creak echoed through the silent, still hall. Thankfully I reached the bottom without him coming out to find me. I couldn’t face him again, not now. Not when it was all so fresh. I reached the door of the study, pushed it open, and slipped inside.
Once I’d shut the door, I felt better, as if I had entered a safe place. I’d spent so much time in this cosy room over the last three days, surrounded by books and warming by the fire, that it felt like a haven. A draft blew in from between the windowpanes, and I rubbed my hands together to try to keep them warm. I got the fire going, and then sat down behind the desk to do some work.
I’d been going over the accounts in Duncan’s files, when I’d found one page where the numbers didn’t seem to add up. The total in the account was some £400 more than the items actually listed. I decided to log in to Alice’s online accounts system and see if the mistake had somehow been added by Duncan.
Duncan was right—the online accounting system was clunky and uncooperative. It took me some time to figure out how to access the right data. I pulled up the statements from the appropriate month and check out the totals. They were exactly the same. That’s odd. This system should add these up perfectly every time. I don’t understand what’s happening ...
Hang on a second.
I counted the rows of transactions. There were twenty in total, for that was the amount that fit on a page. I looked again at the paper in front of me. The total was exactly the same, but when I counted, I got only nineteen entries. I counted again. Yup, I was definitely right. A row was missing from Duncan’s accounts.
That’s very odd.
This time, I read through the page carefully, checking every transaction against the online account. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Alice had the usual sorts of transactions—at the supermarket, the pharmacy, as well as payments to her brokerage firm, insurance, a monthly magazine subscription and some music lessons—
Music lessons.
I’d never noticed that entry on any of Duncan’s accounts, but there it was in the online account system, clear as a shot of vodka, which was what I was seriously starting to think I needed as I realised what I had uncovered. Music lessons. It couldn’t be true. Eric had told me about his mother and how much she hated music. So either Alice was secretly learning to play the piano for £200 an hour, or she was acting as a benefactor for some other poor struggling music student. Knowing what I did of Alice Marshell, neither option seemed likely. That only left one other option: someone was transacting money from her accounts without permission, and they were attempting to hide their tracks.
I hit the BACK key and flicked through the other months. Sure enough, every week, out came two transactions labelled “music lessons.” Each time they were for £200 on a Tuesday and Thursday, and the transactions went back more than a year. I thumbed through each of Duncan’s accounts. None of those transactions were listed. Someone had painstakingly removed every mention of these “music lessons” and then done a bit of clever formatting to prevent me from noticing.
The money was going to an organisation calling itself the Crookshollow Conservatory. I quickly googled the name, not surprised when nothing came up. Next, I checked the register of businesses in Companies House. And sure enough, the conservatory didn’t come up there, either. It was a fake company, and I think I had a fair idea of who its director might be.
I remembered the way Duncan had steered our conversation out on the porch. He’d given me the tampered files and tried to dissuade me from using the online system. He’d desperately wanted to know how far I’d got on Alice’s estate. I thought he was just thinking of fulfilling the obligations he had to Alice, but he was actually trying to cover up the thousands of pounds he’d stolen from her.
I have to tell Eric. The thought occur
red immediately. Duncan was organising the funeral. His funeral. I didn’t want the guy anywhere near the house. He had to know I’d be likely to discover his deception. Who knows what he’d do? I didn’t want to talk to Eric again right now, but I didn’t have a choice.
I searched the house for him, but could find no trace of my man in black. I took a flashlight and examined the cobweb-riddled corners of the basement, but he wasn’t there, either. I walked around upstairs, checking in all the closets and bathrooms and guest bedrooms. I called his name, but there was no reply.
I was walking back down the hall when I noticed a skinny door next to the guest bathroom that I hadn’t seen before. I thought it might be a linen cupboard, but when I opened it I found a flight of steep steps. There must be an attic. I didn’t really want to go up there, but I had no choice. “Eric?” I called, moving tentatively on to the first step. “Are you up there?”
“Go away,” A voice called back down. He didn’t sound angry, just flat. Resigned.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the pain that arced across my temples at the sound of his voice. “Look, I’m not here to apologise or anything. I just discovered something that I thought you should know about.”
Silence.
I cleared my throat. “So, um … someone has been siphoning money out of your mother’s accounts. Over £20,000 in the last year alone.”
I waited. There was several moments of agonising silence, and then Eric’s voice came down the stairs again. Louder this time, clearer. He sounded surprised. And annoyed. “But that’s impossible. My mother is ruthless with money. She’d have caught any suspicious behaviour in an instant. You must have got it wrong.”
“I didn’t get it wrong,” I snapped. “It’s my job to discover things like this. It’s only been going on since she got sick. She left the responsibility for her accounts in the hands of someone she trusted.”
“Duncan?”
“I could be wrong, but I don’t think I am. He came over yesterday and asked some really strange questions. He’s tampered with her accounts to try to hide the transactions, and then tried to convince me to overlook the online accounts, which he couldn’t mess with.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I’m going to send all the files to our forensic accounting team, and they’ll go through them and figure out exactly what’s been taken. Then we’ll go to the police. In the meantime, I have to convince Duncan that I’m none the wiser, so he doesn’t do something stupid like skip the country.” I paused. There was no answer, so I spoke again, trying to keep my voice from wavering. “That’s all. I’ll leave you alone now.”
“Elinor, wait—” Eric called down after me, but I slammed the door and fled back down to the study.
This was the first time since I’d been at Marshell House that I’d ventured into the centre of Crookshollow. I had to admit that it was actually quite pretty, as small towns without designer boutiques and Starbucks went. The high street was clean, with wide footpaths and wooden benches set around well-kept flower beds. Several pedestrian avenues branched off it, lined with quaint shops and tiny pubs and restaurants. At one end of the street was a large modern building, built of glass and steel, that towered over the street. The Halt Institute. Who knew Crookshollow had such a modern appendage? It looked like it housed an art gallery and some other cultural things. I made a mental note to go back and check it out another day.
I found a parking space opposite the witchcraft museum, and started walking around. I caught sight of a petite girl with spiky white hair and a killer red leather jacket walking out from a vegan coffee shop. Her arms were covered in intricate, bright-coloured tattoos. She looked like the sort of girl Allan should be dating. I decided to follow her and see if she could lead me to some cool shops.
Most of the shops were only just opening, so although the cafes along the high street were doing a roaring trade, and there was a line outside the door of Bewitching Bites, there weren’t many other people about. The white-haired girl didn’t seem to be in any kind of hurry. She meandered slowly down the street, occasionally sipping on her coffee or glancing in a window. I followed at a good distance, making note of the stores she paused at to come back to later.
Finally, she pulled open the door to a shop called Astarte, and ducked inside. Bingo. I stood outside and peered in the window. The store appeared to sell a huge range of items, from racks of crystals to stacks of old-looking, leather-bound books, to weird knick-knacks and—
Oh. Wow.
In the corner of the front window stood a mannequin wearing the most incredible dress I’d ever seen. It was black and slinky with a cowl neck, and it clung to every curve of the mannequin, before flaring out just at the knee in a flowing fishtail skirt. The bodice was embroidered with swirling silver designs, and the row of silver swirls around the hem looked almost like tentacles rising up from the deep. The whole outfit reminded me of something Morticia Addams would wear if she were going to a fancy-dress ball. I loved it instantly, but of course, the mannequin was a size 0, so there was probably no way it would look good on me. I did see a couple of racks of clothes near the back of the store, though. If there was anything like that dress in my size, I’d be set.
I swung the door open and ducked inside. A cloying smell assailed my nostrils, and my eyes watered in the corners. I saw three incense burners on the counter. That was why. The store was much larger inside than it appeared from the street. The old Victorian shopfront had a low, dark-panelled ceiling that was obscured by new-age posters and strings of crystals and dreamcatchers. Dark oak bookshelves lined each wall, crammed with books and pouches and candles of all colours and descriptions. One table displayed a range of crystal necklaces, another was stacked high with glossy books about witchcraft and candle magic. It looked like the kind of store Hermione Granger would feel perfectly at home in.
While I was standing in the doorway gaping like an idiot, the white-haired girl finished paying for her purchases and moved toward me. “Excuse me.” She smiled politely as she brushed past me to get through the narrow door, leaving a trail of spicy perfume in her wake.
I was now the only customer in the store. The woman behind the counter turned to me. She was quite elderly, probably in her seventies, although the long jet-black hair that hung down her back in a single plait made her look younger. She wore several black shawls tied around her shoulders, so that it was nearly impossible to tell her real size or shape. Her nails were painted bright pink, and her eyes danced with intelligence. She fixed her gaze on me.
“I’m Clara,” the old woman said. “How can I help you?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I was wondering about that dress in your window, but I don’t know if it’ll be in my size—”
“Of course it is! That style of dress was practically made for your figure. Wait there and I’ll fetch one for you.” Clara disappeared to the back of the store, and I moved to the rack behind the window. Despite her kind words, I highly doubted that the black dress was going to look good on me. I started searching for something more flattering.
The rack was filled to bursting with dresses in all colours and sizes. But nothing grabbed me like that black dress. I fingered some silken scarves printed with spiderweb designs tied to a wooden tree. Next to the tree was a cabinet stuffed with books. I smiled as I scanned the strange titles; The Book of Soyga, The Necronomicon, The Lesser Key of Solomon, Sexual Magick, The Ghosts of Crookshollow. Witchcraft Through the Ages, The Ghost Whisperer. I picked one up and started flicking through it. Every page had images of ghosts and spirits from different time periods and cultures. I turned to the index, wondering if maybe one of these books could tell me something about Eric and how he had become solid last night.
Just then Clara returned with an armload of fabric. “I found a couple of others that would suit you, dear.” she said, as she hung the dresses in the changing room. I put the book down and walked inside. The first dress was the shimmering bl
ack dress from the window. It was made of some slinky, clingy material. I pulled it over my head and smoothed it down, my heart beating nervously as I dared my first peek in the mirror.
I hardly recognised myself. The black made my skin look clear and creamy, the silver swirls drawing attention to my breast and hips. I did a little sashay, admiring the way the dress clung to every curve in all the right places. For the first time in years, I grinned back at my reflection. I looked like a movie starlet. Eric would flip when he saw it.
Don’t you mean Allan? Devil’s Advocate Elinor sneered.
Yes, of course. I mean Allan will love this dress. But there was no fooling myself. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I was imagining Eric’s black-clad body next to mine, his beautiful fingers taking hold of me and escorting me into some music industry black tie event. But of course that could never be. A tear fell from the edge of my eye and splashed against the neckline, a tiny wet droplet against the shimmering fabric.
Quickly, I pulled off the dress and tried on the next one—a wraparound dress in a beautiful emerald green. It looked great too, but had a rather plunging neckline and short hem that I didn’t think I’d feel comfortable in outside of the changing room.
And then I saw the other dress. A red so rich and intense it made me gasp. A sweetheart neckline and boned corset stitched with vines of sparkling black beads. A skirt made of multiple layers of tulle and chiffon that shimmered under the lights. It looked just like the dress the girl wore on the cover of Ghost Symphony’s first album.
The skirt and corset were two separate parts, and it took me several minutes to struggle into them, and then several more minutes to fasten the corset correctly. I’d never worn a garment like that before, with laces to do up and clasps in the front. I dared a look in the mirror, gasping with delight when I saw my reflection. It fit perfectly. The corset pushed my girls up, giving me the most impressive cleavage I’d ever seen. It also pulled my waist in, without being constricting, giving my body that coveted hourglass shape. And the skirt, oh the skirt! It danced as I moved, the layers swirling around my legs, caressing my skin as they flared out around me. The red picked up flecks of light and colour, so it appeared as if flickers of flame burst from the hem. I looked like the heroine of a Del Toro film. I had no idea where I would wear a dress like that, but I knew I had to have it.
The Man in Black: A Gothic Romance (Crookshollow Ghosts) Page 16