Page 22 of The Little Shop of Curiosities, The Music Box Part 2

Sam: We’re at Danny’s flat, and he’s the most responsible and straitlaced person I’ve ever met. What could possibly go wrong?

I snort quietly and, after typing out a quick goodbye, set my phone down on the sofa’s side table. When my stomach punctuates my movement with a loud rumble, it occurs to me that I missed lunch. I head into the kitchen in search of food.

For the next hour, I potter around the kitchen cooking myself some early dinner, my mind churning over the events of the day. I’m still not sure what to make of Mr Hadley. What had he been doing in an old, almost forgotten graveyard in Whitechapel just after Vivienne’s funeral? Had he followed me? And how did he know my name? I should’ve asked him all this at the time, but my brain was still a bit scrambled from lack of sleep, 3D dreams about murder, and the funeral of the mother I never knew.

I plate up my meal and settle at the small table in the living room to eat. By the time I’m done and have cleaned up the kitchen, I’m still no closer to any plausible answers.

Instead, I make myself a cup of tea and head back to the sofa, switching the track of my thoughts to the fox.

I chew my lip. Is it tied to Vivienne specifically? It could be a familiar. Then again, piecing together all the pieces of information Tristan has given me about her, I don’t think my mother was a witch, at least not a practising one. I suppose I could be wrong.

If it was Vivienne’s familiar, why show itself to me? And why did it lead me to Cordelia’s empty grave? Tapping my fingers against the arm of the sofa, I mull it over. What if it’s not connected to Vivienne specifically but to the Crawshanks bloodline, which includes me?

And what is it exactly? It takes the form of fox, but it doesn’t seem to be a spirit, and neither is it fully corporeal.

I’m not going to find any answers sitting here and brooding on my own. What I need is to ask someone, someone with more experience than me. Picking up my phone from the table, I swipe through the screen to bring up my contacts. I’m still not calling my dads, but there is one other person I can ask.

I hold the phone to my ear and listen to it ring.

“Harry?” A gruff voice answers.

Everything in me relaxes at the familiar voice of my grandfather. “Grumps.”

It had started as a bit of a joke when I was a child—Gramps had become known as Grumps, and it had stuck.

Despite us not sharing DNA, it became clear to my dads very early on that Grumps and I shared a deep bond and the same prickly personality traits.

I hear several loud crashing noises in the background, as well as a lot of raised voices and other commotion. It certainly doesn’t sound like the peaceful, upmarket retirement home in Devon where Grumps lives.

“Where are you?” I ask suspiciously.

“Some draughty old hotel near the Yorkshire moors,” he replies. “Essie and Martha dragged the whole bridge club up here for a stay. The food and booze are top-notch, but the place is infested with ghosts. They’re practically oozing out of the walls and floors. Very entertaining though, I’ll give them that. The staff too. It’s like a geriatric Faulty Towers.”

“Do Dad and Pops know you’ve made a break for freedom?”

“Pft, they’re off on a jolly on some bloody big boat in the Caribbean, why should they be the only ones allowed to have fun? Anyway, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call? I heard you were shacked up in connubial bliss with a psychic copper.”

“He’s a private investigator, not a police officer.” I sigh. I should have known Dad would have told him. I’m pretty certain half of Devon knows about me and Sam by now.

“But you are shacked up in connubial bliss?”

“No, I…we—oh, shut up,” I say snippily when Grumps barks out a loud laugh. The gravelly sound is comforting. “Anyway, the reason I’m call–”

“Hold on a minute, Harry, let me move somewhere quieter. Marjorie has just knocked over a suit of armour, some bloody thing named Brad. It’s making a terrible racket.”

“Who’s Marjorie?”

“My bridge partner and, for the purposes of this trip, my roomie,” Grumps replies. The background noise gradually quietens, so I assume he’s moved into a different room.

“Your roomie?” I repeat slowly. “You don’t mean that you and her are—no, nope. I can’t even bring myself to finish that sentence.”

“For goodness’ sake, Harry, I’m eighty, not dead. Besides, we’re really only sharing a bed. She put her hip out last week, and she’s trying not to aggravate it while she’s on the list for a hip replacement. The consultant advised her to avoid any vigorous movement.”

“Oh my god.” I close my eyes.

“You know I loved your grandmother, but she wouldn’t have wanted me to be lonely, and it’s not like Marjorie and I are exclusive. We’ve both been playing the field, you could say. Do you know what a swinger is?”

“Please stop talking.”