Keira scarfed down the remainder of her breakfast, washed the pot at breakneck speed, and pulled on a sweater before racing toward the door. A heavy thud told her the little cat had come down from her perch, and Keira let her outside. “Don’t stray too far, okay?”
The cat frisked into the cemetery and began nosing about the gravestones. Keira could only hope none of the spirits would be offended and began jogging to town.
The narrow dirt road was becoming increasingly familiar. She recognized the oddly shaped shrubs, the potholes, and the row of tall trees that housed countless birds. Melancholy threatened again, but she shoved it into the back of her conscience.
The town was alive by the time she reached it. Jangling doorbells echoed around her, and raucous laughter came from near the fountain. Keira entered the florist’s and found Polly Kennard at the counter, ringing up a huge bunch of roses for an older gentleman. Keira turned toward the flower-lined walls and pretended to admire the bouquets while Polly finished the sale.
At last, the door jingled, signaling that the other shopper had left, and Keira turned. To her shock, Polly was already standing next to her, beaming eagerly behind her pince-nez glasses. “After more flowers, dear?”
Keira laughed and pressed a hand to her heart. “Thank you, but I’d better not take any more of your stock. I just came in to thank you for yesterday’s beautiful daisies.”
“Anytime, my dear, anytime.” Polly seized Keira’s arm and pulled her toward the back of the store. “You still haven’t met my son, have you? You’re in luck—he’s home today. Normally, Harry’s out practicing with his friends. He’s in a band, you see. Do you like musicians? Of course you do. Young ladies love musicians. He’s the lead singer, you know.” Then she called up the recessed stairs hidden behind the counter, “Harry, it’s that lovely lady I was telling you about yesterday! Come on down and meet Miss Keira!”
Keira, unable to get a word in edgewise, could only grimace as heavy footsteps moved down the stairs. In her excitement to make progress on Emma’s mystery, she’d completely forgotten that Polly had been trying to play matchmaker for her son. “Uh, actually—”
Polly didn’t give her a chance to object but patted her arm conspiratorially. “I’m sure you two will get on like a house on fire. He’s such a sweet boy.”
The footsteps came to a halt, and Harry emerged from the shadows. Keira felt her eyebrows rise, and despite knowing how rude she was being, she was incapable of stopping herself from staring.
Blighty was a charming, respectable, pretty sort of town. Its houses were quaint, its countryside was green and soothing, and its stores were cozy and welcoming. Harry Kennard looked more out of place than a crow in a whitest-dove contest.
His shoulder-length, uncomfortably straight hair had been dyed black. His eyes and lips were painted. Even his piercings were made of black plastic. It was hard to tell if he was naturally pale or if he used powder to achieve his ideal shade of pallid, but the effect was certainly striking. He was tall enough that his head brushed the doorway’s top, even though he stooped, and he gave Keira a dispassionate blink with two flat, resigned eyes.
Keira tried to push through the shock and fix a polite smile onto her face as she glanced between the sweet, motherly Polly and her son. “Wow. Uh. Hey. Nice to meet you.”
He gave Keira one very long, very unimpressed stare before turning on the spot and retreating up the stairs.
“Good thought, Harry, let’s have a cup of tea,” Polly tittered. She squeezed Keira’s arm and leaned close. “He likes you.”
She thought her face might break from the fake smile. “Yay.”
Before Keira knew what was happening, Polly had whisked to the store’s front entrance and flipped the flowery Open placard so that the rainy-weather Closed side faced outside. As the florist locked the door, Keira had just enough time to wish she were anywhere else in the world, literally anywhere—then Polly was dragging her up the stairs to the apartment above the shop.
Well, I still need to talk to her. Even if she’s trying to set me up with her son, this might be my best opportunity.
Upstairs was a cozy, cluttered apartment. Very little of Harry existed in the space; the upholstery and wallpapers were in floral prints that featured shades of pinks, oranges, yellows, and greens. Cherubic figurines cluttered every surface. Only one ornament seemed to have been chosen by the man: a bleached-white skull perched on top of the entertainment unit. Keira squinted at it. The skull was crumbly and asymmetrical enough for her to think it might be real.
“Harry!” Polly fussed around the space, directing Keira to a rose-patterned couch, then bustling into the kitchen. “Harry, don’t slink off into your room when we have guests! It’s not polite!”
Keira could hear a long, exaggerated sigh from the end of the hallway. She leaned forward to glimpse Harry reemerge from his room, which was painted entirely in shades of black, from what she could see. He slouched back into the living room.
“Oh good, there you are. I bet you wanted to brush your hair. Cheeky boy.” Polly pushed her son into the seat opposite Keira and began setting out a fine china tea set.
For a moment, Keira and Harry were in danger of sharing some exceptionally awkward eye contact, but Harry spared her from it by flopping back and staring at the ceiling.
Keira was surprised by a sudden rush of sympathy for Polly. The florist was giving everything she had to make a good first impression for her son; the china was clearly only for special occasions, and her nervous chattering served to underline how eager she was. But her chances of success were less than zero. Even if Keira had been interested in the brooding goth, he was clearly not interested in her. Or, she suspected, in much of anything.
“Let me help you with that,” Keira said, hoping she could subvert the awkwardness by spending the visit with her host. But Polly shooed her back to the couch. “Don’t be silly, honey. I’ve got this sorted. I’m sure you two want to get to know each other.”
Keira had no choice but to slide back into her seat. Harry continued to ignore her in favor of watching the white paint above his head. She cleared her throat and tried to find some way to break the silence. Her eyes landed on his hands, which he’d rested in his lap. “Nice nails.”
His head straightened, and he gave another incredibly long, incredibly slow blink. “They’re black.”
Keira could only manage a tight-lipped nod. “They definitely are.”
Polly appeared at their side, a tray of cups balanced in her hands. “Here we go, kids. How do you like yours, Keira? Tea? Coffee? Or I could make some hot chocolate if you—”
“Tea’s fine,” Keira quickly interjected. “Uh, milk, no sugar, thanks.”
“Absolutely, dear. Harry, why don’t you invite Keira to your next band rehearsal? You have such a pretty voice. I’m sure she’d enjoy it.”
Another heavy, laborious sigh escaped Harry. “It’s post-transient death grunge. You’re not supposed to enjoy it.”
“Harry,” his mother hissed, kicking at his foot. He ignored her.
Keira tried her best to divert the conversation. “You have a gorgeous store. I admire it every time I pass by.”
“Ooh, thank you, dear!” Polly almost glowed. “It’s my pride and joy. My sister owns the coffeehouse by the fountain. Has Beans and Two Bees. Clever, eh?”
Harry’s lips pulled back from his teeth in a grimace at the same time as Keira said, “Yes, very.”
“And you’re visiting with nice Mr. Adage, aren’t you, Keira?”
“Yes. He’s been very kind to let me stay.” Keira glanced at Harry, who was pointedly ignoring them. She knew she shouldn’t prod him, but the opportunity was too good to pass up. “Harry, I bet you can appreciate a good cemetery.”
His ocher-lined eyes lit on her. “I do. I visit it at night and sit beneath the stones and imagine I’m sinking down, down, down, into my tomb.”
“Harry!” Polly sounded scandalized. She tweaked her son’s ear,
shaking his long hair into disarray. Keira tensed up, expecting a fight, but Harry simply ran his fingers through his locks and leaned back in the chair. A potato would have shown more emotion.
Deep mortification flushed color over Polly’s cheeks and widened her eyes. “I’m sure he’s just joking, dear. He’s really quite a sweet boy. He writes his own songs, you know; he’s very good at it.”
“They’re all about pain and death.”
“Harry.”
“Oh good, my favorite.” Keira was trying furiously not to laugh. She knew her face muscles were twitching and could only hope that Polly was so distracted by her son that she didn’t notice.
Polly’s smile was very near cracking. She sat on the edge of her seat, shooting desperate glances between Keira and Harry, with her hands clasped in her lap. “He plays in the local pub sometimes. You should come along for one of his concerts.”
Harry added, “I like to see how quickly we can empty the place. My record is six minutes.”
Polly loosed another strained, desperate laugh. “You’re such a joker, Harry. People love your little songs. And…and…” She was clearly clutching at straws but refused to give up. “He’s quite artistic too! If painting everything you own black counts—”
“Mum.” Harry’s voice carried no inflection. “You have a store to watch.”
She gave a small, defeated exhale and rose. “Yes, yes, of course. I’ll leave you two to get to know each other better. No rush, Keira, no rush at all! There’s plenty more tea!”
They both waited as Polly hurried to the stairs, shot them a hopeful glance over her shoulder, and descended out of sight.
Silence filled the room. Keira let her eyes rove over the decorations. Unable to tolerate the silence, she cleared her throat. “So—”
Harry, still staring blandly at the opposite wall, raised a finger to indicate he wanted silence. After a moment, Keira understood why: a door clicked, betraying that Polly had given up eavesdropping at the base of the stairs.
Harry let his head loll to one side, his limp, dark hair half covering his eyes. “You live in the graveyard?”
“Well, right on the edge of it, if that counts.”
Apparently it did, because Harry gave her one slow nod. “Cool.”
Keira cleared her throat. “Sorry about this by the way.”
“Not the first time. Won’t be the last.” He sighed in a way that suggested he’d accepted his fate. “I think she’s running out of people inside the town. She’s starting to outsource.”
He continued to watch the opposite wall, and the lack of eye contact was beginning to unnerve Keira. She drained her cup of tea, scorching her tongue in the process.
Finally, the corners of his lips twitched. It wasn’t much—the memory of a smile if that—but Keira thought it was more than most people saw. “You’d better go before Mum invents an excuse to trap you here longer.”
“I’ll do that. But first, can I ask you something?”
His eyebrows rose.
“Is that a real skull?”
Harry followed her gaze toward the white shape on top of the entertainment unit. “Mum thinks it’s plastic.”
“But…it’s not?”
His unblinking stare held a deep, secret humor. “Goodbye, Keira.”
She bit the inside of her mouth so that she wouldn’t be tempted to laugh, returned her cup to the table, and rose. “Sure thing. Maybe I’ll see you around the graveyard sometime.”
Keira could feel his eyes on her back as she hurried down the stairs and back into the florist shop. He’s weird as heck, but he doesn’t seem bad. I get the feeling he’s actually quite smart under his eighteen layers of makeup.
Polly was at the counter, furiously snipping ribbons, and looked up as Keira entered. Tentative hope flitted across her face. “He, uh, he wasn’t on his best form today, but he’s normally quite the charmer.”
Lying to Polly would have been abhorrent, but Keira didn’t want to entirely crush her either. Instead, she chose to employ something close to the truth. “He seems like a cool guy. I wouldn’t mind getting to know him more—as friends.”
“Yes?” Polly looked ready to hug Keira, who quickly sidled around the desk to put some distance between them.
“As friends,” she repeated, but Polly seemed deaf to the phrase. She looked ready to burst out of her skin. There’s no time like the present, Keira thought helplessly, and launched into her question before her host could sing any more of her son’s praises. “Polly, I’ve been learning as much as I can about this town, and Emma Carthage’s story keeps coming up. You knew her, didn’t you?”
For the first time since Keira had entered the store, Polly’s flawless smile dropped. She blinked, looking stunned, as though Keira had slapped her. Then she chuckled weakly, turned to the cut ribbons, and began to roll them absentmindedly. “Oh, yes, yes, we used to be friends back in the day.”
Polly clearly disliked the subject, and Keira very nearly backed out. The emotional scab had to be raw, still—but Polly’s memories might be Emma’s last chance to move on. “I was hoping to learn more about her death. Especially about her killer.”
Polly shoved the ribbon spools onto their shelf too quickly, and two rolls tumbled back off and bounced over the wooden floor. Her fingers were shaking as she picked them up. “He was… He…” Her face contorted, then the sweet, grandmotherly smile was back in place like an unbreakable mask. “You’re really testing my memory, dear. You’d much better ask some other people about it. Adage knows most of the business.”
Her chance was slipping away, and Keira desperately tried to snatch it back. “You remember Frank, though, don’t you? Emma’s fiancé?”
Polly glanced aside and hesitated. For a second, Keira worried she’d be stonewalled again, but then the florist spoke. “Yes. Of course. Frank… People say he was weak willed, but he would have done anything for Emma. They would have been happy. Bought a little house in the country, maybe. Raised a family. He should have known…”
Keira leaned over the countertop hopefully. “Yes?”
“Oh, never mind my rambling, dear. I was just remembering… You know how sometimes you have the opportunity to do the right thing, and you want to, and you’re preparing to, but then the chance evaporates, and all you can do is spend the rest of your life regretting that you waited too long?”
Lady, I have less than four days stored in my memory banks. That is not a situation I’ve encountered in that time. “Sure?”
Polly sighed heavily. “Then you’ll understand me when I say this: if life gives you a chance for something, you can’t hesitate or wait for a better time. You just have to take a leap of faith while it’s there.”
Keira was nodding, but her brain was composed entirely of question marks. “Do you regret something that happened before Emma’s death?”
A flash of panic crossed the florist’s face. She glanced behind herself, then busied her hands with stripping leaves off a bunch of flowers in a bucket behind her desk. “She came to my house on the morning she died. I wasn’t home; my sister answered the door, but dear Emma wouldn’t come in. She left for Crispin House without waiting for me to come back. Sometimes I think…if I’d been there for her…if I’d guessed…” Polly shook her head, reached over the counter, and seized Keira’s hands. She tilted forward so she could give a meaningful look over the pince-nez glasses. “Regret is a terrible thing, my dear. I hope I’m not being too blunt—but if there’s a special someone you think you might have feelings for…”
Oh. We’re back to that. Keira very carefully extracted her hands. “I understand. Thank you, Polly. You’ve been incredibly kind today.”
The smile was back in place. “Anytime, dear, anytime. Pop back in if you fancy some flowers; anything in the shop is yours!”
Nodding and muttering thanks, Keira backed out of the store—and collided with a tall, warm body. “Ah, I’m so sorry.” She turned and blinked up at a familiar smile.
“You weren’t having tea with Harry, were you?” Mason tilted his head to one side, his warm green eyes sparkling with laughter. “You’ll make me jealous.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Keira laughed and gave Mason’s shoulder a shove as she slipped past him. “Harry sure is something, isn’t he? Does he really have concerts at the pub?”
“Oh, yes. They’re incredible.” Mason nodded in the direction of the town center, and they began strolling toward the fountain. “Ear-splitting screams count as incredible, right?”
“Ha!” Keira pushed her hands into her pockets and matched Mason’s easy pace. “What’re you doing out this way?”
“On my way to visit you, in actual fact. It’s lucky I saw you as I was passing the florist.” He shrugged. “My official excuse was to check on your arm, but really, I was just bored. Can I buy you a drink?”
You need to tell him you’re leaving. Keira’s chest tightened at the thought, but she smiled before the emotion could leak onto her face. “Can we get it to-go? Today’s too nice to sit inside.”
“Good thought; we should enjoy the sun while it lasts. They’re talking about more rain tonight.” They’d reached the intersection, and even though there weren’t any cars in sight, Mason still stopped and looked both ways before leading Keira across. “That’s one of my favorite things about Blighty: it’s almost perpetually wet. If it’s not rain, it’s mist, and if it’s not mist, it’s snow that turns to slush before you can look sideways at it.”
Their conversation came to a halt as they entered the coffee shop and a wave of chatter and radio tunes enveloped them. Keira only remembered her financially handicapped condition when they’d joined the queue. “Uh…sorry, I didn’t bring any money—”
“Good! It’s my treat.”
Marlene, the disengaged barista, barely glanced at them before asking what they wanted. Keira crossed her fingers that she didn’t hate coffee and asked for a latte. Mason ordered tea for himself. Keira didn’t know how it was possible when Marlene only had one harried-looking assistant helping her, but their orders were filled in less than a minute.
The Whispering Dead: Gravekeeper Book 1 Page 14
