Joker in the Pack (Romantic Suspense, Completed, Watty Winner)

Chapter 8

"And it'll be all musty and stink of mothballs. I stood next to a guy on the Tube yesterday who smelled of mothballs." Maddie wrinkled her nose. "I didn't even realise people still used them."

"Me neither," Mickey said. "Let's hope it doesn't have damp. That can play havoc with your furniture."

Good thing I'd sold most of mine then, wasn't it?

"Guys, it's bad enough that I'm moving to the middle of nowhere, without the thought of having to live in a time warp."

Maddie patted me on the hand. "Only trying to be realistic. It's hardly going to be a palace, is it?"

I laid my head against the car window and groaned. Yes, she was right. But at least it came at the right price.

When Mickey said "cottage," my imagination had run wild, thinking of one of those chocolate-box affairs with white walls and a cute thatched roof. A couple of overstuffed armchairs in the lounge, some chintzy curtains, and a bedroom where you had to duck under a quaint wooden beam to go inside. I could visualise myself living somewhere like that, even if it was clinging to the edge of civilisation by the ivy twisted artfully over its front porch.

But I could already see from the outside that my daydreams had been wide of the mark. In the next county, most likely.

Brown. That was the overriding theme of Lilac Cottage. Drab brick walls, paint peeling from once-beige window frames, the makeshift front door. The only hint of colour on the cottage itself was the green moss growing all over the roof.

Mickey winced as he poked at the window frame nearest the front door. "These need replacing. Painted at least."

The whole cottage needed replacing. Preferably with a tidy apartment near shops and a Tube station. Butterflies battered my stomach with heavy wings as I reached for the padlock. How bad would the inside be?

Judging by the creak, nobody had oiled the hinges in years, and as I stepped over the threshold into the dim hallway, I found Maddie had been right about the mustiness. Ick. I reached out for the light switch and clicked it.

"Why is nothing happening?" I hissed.

"The electricity's probably been cut off," Mickey said. "Eleanor wasn't around to pay the bill, was she?"

Another job for tomorrow, or rather, the day after, what with the first of January being a bank holiday. Good thing I'd brought a torch.

Mickey peered down at a set of shelves next to the front door, the only furniture in the otherwise empty hallway.

"What are you looking for?" I asked.

"Her face."

"Huh?"

"Eleanor's face. You know, like in the Beatles' song, where the old lady kept her face by the door in a jar. Always thought that sounded like a horror film."

"I'm pretty sure Paul McCartney didn't mean a real face."

"I guess."

But that didn't stop Mickey from singing a few off-key lines as I picked up the chunky phone sitting on the top shelf. No dial tone. It was as dead as its owner. Next to it, Aunt Ellie had started a shopping list she'd never complete.

Microwave chips.

Pizza.

Dairy Milk chocolate.

Lottery scratch card.

Hmm... Looked as if she hadn't been much of a chef.

A flight of stairs ran up the wall to my right and disappeared into the gloom above. On the ground floor, four doors led off the hallway, three at the far end and one next to me. I pushed it open and immediately regretted that decision.