This is 4/4 free chapters
The Mini bounced over the last pothole in the road, turned onto the driveway, and came to a standstill. Gary turned off the motor, but then he sat there, staring at nothing, the ticking sounds made by the engine a background noise to the thoughts roaring through his head.
Outside, a gale flashed at the trees, their leaves scattering like yellow confetti. Only Early November, but autumn was in full swing. The nasty part. The one that came complete with fog, grey skies, plummeting temperatures and moisture everywhere, even in places where it did not belong.
Like the attic which had recently sprung a leak, despite the house being so new.
A bucket took care of the seepage until the roofer would deign to show his pimpled face. That bucket wouldn't fix the Jon problem, however.
How far would Bill go? Sandie was well-meaning and mostly harmless, but she followed her husband's lead. Involving his in-laws had gone against Gary's grain, but he needed to solve Jon's school troubles and do so fast. Well, he might have succeeded on that point.
But at what cost?
With a sigh, Gary pushed the car door open and levered himself upright. At least the foot was improved. Two weeks of sessions with the physiotherapist—who seemed to draw his inspirations from the London Dungeon—had seen to that. Crutches were still a must, but with them, he could walk almost without a limp.
Gary unlocked the front door and let himself into his box of a house. Starter home the salesman had called it when they signed two years ago.
What a joke. The place was heavy on the starter and easy on the home.
Especially now that the place was deadly quiet, reeking of the disinfectants the new cleaner loved spritzing all over the floors, handles and light switches.
Gary shrugged out of his coat, made for the kitchen and opened the fridge.
A jar of Branston Pickle, an open carton of milk from where emanated a worrisome sour smell and some greenery lurking in the veg compartment. He opened it and spotted a cucumber going to mush and depressed lettuce.
That state of affairs called for another pub dinner.
Gary ripped the last kitchen paper off the roll and dumped the offensive veg into the bin.
Which greeted him with the stink of cat food sitting inside for way too long. With a snarl, he yanked at the bin liner, removed and knotted it. Now, all he had to do was remember to take it outside.
The door to the kitchen creaked ajar, and a furry orange shape squeezed through the gap.
"Meow!"
"Pleased to see you, Gladys. And no, it's not time for dinner yet. Got to get some work done first."
Gladys was not amused. She followed him into the stuffy box squeezed under the stairs that passed for his office, hopped up on his desk and plonked herself on his keyboard, purring.
"Will you shift your hairy behind!"
He pushed at the warm little body, but the cat refused to budge.
With a sigh, Gary swung around on his office chair and reached for the post the cleaner had brought in.
Invoices, more invoices, advertising, a takeover bid, even more invoices—hang on, what? With sudden mirth bubbling in his throat he skimmed over the ridiculous proposal before dumping it on the rubbish pile.
Well, if the competition thought LiteraTours was worth buying, his business model seemed to be working, no matter what Bill said.
Bill.
The mirth died away as Gary's thoughts flipped back to the Jon dilemma.
Should he continue with LiteraTours? The agency? As a salaried project manager, he might well make big bucks. After all, he had studied that stuff. And didn't enjoy it.
"With a decent job and regular hours I would have more time for Jon."
The cat opened a pale green eye.
"Emma would be devastated if I sold the company."
"Mrrrp?"
"Yes, she's gone. But it still feels like treason. And you know what—the tours are fun. Despite these bills." He waved sheaves of paper at the vibrating feline.
"What about the others, hm? Tell me that. Ike has invested all her remaining capital. Lorna and Aline will do anything to make the company fly. I can't disappoint them."
"Mew!"
With that vote of confidence, at least that was what it sounded like, Gladys rose from the keyboard, stretched, stalked to the edge of the desk and plopped onto the floor. From the monitor, a long string of nonsensical characters stared at him where Gladys's paws or her substantial belly, or both, had pushed keys.
As a conversation partner, the cat disappointed.
As much as he hated depending on people, once in a while he needed a human sounding board. Had Emma been around, she would have sorted him out in no time. But she had been gone for over a year. High time he pulled his socks up and stopped hurting. If only things were that easy.
You've got friends, stop this blue funk for heaven's sake.
Gary squinted at the screen until the blurry numbers right at the bottom stabilised. Perhaps, he should wear those reading glasses more often. The numbers revealed it was way too early to meet Adrian in the pub. The place wasn't even open yet.
Lorna and Aline then?
Retired librarians, the couple had been friends of his parents. They had become quasi-aunts and, more recently, junior partners in LiteraTours. The ladies dealt with the bookings, freeing him to coordinate the trips. They also plied him with tea, cakes and homemade food. Great food. Too much of it.
Did he dare risk it?
Well, the fridge was empty.
He pressed the speed-dial button.
"Lorna? Hi there, it's Gary."
"I can see that from the number," an amused voice said into his ear. "Good, means you're at home. We wanted to come over if you don't mind. Any news from Brigitte and Ike? They must have finished with the programme by now."
"They're an hour behind. By the time you get here, we should know what's going on."
###
He was correct on one point, wrong on another.
The phone rang twenty minutes later; it caught him in the middle of matching procurement plans and invoices with bank balances.
The privilege of getting his tourists into the Colline Gate catacombs had set him back quite a bit. But it was worth the money, the cherry on top of an already unique programme. Brian, he of the competition, could try to take over the company as long as he liked. He could never pull off such stunts. The man just didn't have the connections.
The ringtone of his phone penetrated his thoughts. With a sigh, Gary swiped the screen. "Hello?"
"Bonsoir Gary," Brigitte said.
"Ah, is the trip finished then? How did the visit to the excavations go?"
"I don't know. I wasn't with the group. We had—how do you always say—a spot of bother with the coach."
"Isn't it new? Not an accident, I hope."
"No accident." There was a short pause, then she spoke again. "All is fixed now, don't worry. Ike will explain things to you. That's why I'm calling, actually. Have you heard from Ike?"
"Eh, no. What the heck is going on?"
"I wish I knew. Remember that other group we share the hotel with? Their guide has helped us out and drove our guests to the ministry. Ike invited them to join for the visit. As a sort of thank you."
Gary's scalp tingled. Hopefully, those archaeologist chappies wouldn't crank up the costs. "I see. And since then, no news?"
"They've gone incommunicado. I thought Ike might have reported to you."
Gary couldn't resist a snort. "As the good lady keeps telling me at every possible and impossible opportunity, she's a partner, not an employee. She doesn't report to me." Ike checked in at regular intervals though. Her falling silent was unexpected. And unusual.
The tingling spread down his spine.
When a guest got murdered in the waterworks back in October, Ike too had disappeared from the radar. It couldn't be happening again.
Gary slammed a lid on such stupid thoughts.
Yes, the German experience had been shocking, outrageous in fact. So outrageous, a repeat performance was out of the question. They had run three more Frankenstein trips without a single hitch . . .
The tingle spread into his arms, and he shook himself. "Brrr."
"Pardon?"
"Never mind. If Ike calls, let me know. I'll do ditto."
Brigitte promised and rang off.
Too wired to continue the financial juggling act, Gary pushed himself from the chair, reached for the crutches and manoeuvred around the desk. The phone which he had left lying next to the keyboard, chose that moment to burst into action.
"Oh, blast." He reached across and checked the display.
Ike.
The doorbell rang. That would be Aline and Lorna.T he smartphone clamped between ear and shoulder, he made for the entrance.
"Ike? What's up?"
Static was his only response, and a whisper so faint it was almost not there.
"I can't hear you very well." Understatement of the year, he couldn't hear her at all.
More static crackled into his ear, blocking the whisper.
"Something is wrong with the connection. Send me a message. Hello?" The call cut off, followed by rapid beeping.
The doorbell rang again, more insistently this time. He swung around—and the sudden movement dislocated the phone, it slipped and tumbled onto the laminated floor.
Good job, we didn't have the money for tiles.
He opened the door and beheld Aline, her stout form covered in a poncho whose pattern and colours could be born of an acid trip. Lorna's choice in clothing, always more conservative, comprised no-nonsense jeans and a bright red fleece jacket, with an anorak thrown on top against the drizzle that seemed to have set in since he last checked.
A chequered cool box stood between them, and his stomach issued an anticipatory growl.
"Come in, come in, sorry I took so long. I was on the phone."
"Off it, I would rather say." Lorna bent down, to pick up the black rectangle from the floor.
The moment she touched it, the device buzzed and twitched in her hand. A gong sounded.
Anticipation zapped through Gary's body. That had to be the message from Ike.
"May I?"
He reached for the phone. Swished across the screen. Read the message.
Reread it.
The tingle turned into an icy numbness. "That's impossible."
Aline extricated herself from her poncho. "What is?"
Lorna's intense gaze focussed on his face. "Oh my, something's wrong."
"It's happening again. We've got ourselves another dead body," Gary said.
Do let me know if you have questions or comments on my novel. Constructive suggestions and feedback are always welcome! And thank you for reading. In doing so, you give my writing a purpose.
Photo is by Akemi Mori from Unsplash