My parents live in a swanky little neighborhood. It”s truly a tight-knit community. Everyone knows everyone, which can be good or bad depending on how you look at it.
It”s good because, hey, discounts, and bad because housewives have nothing better to do than gossip. All the time. And what better to gossip about than the English girl who became a private investigator and got shot at on a regular basis? Apparently not much. My mother called me daily to reprimand me for making the news, again.
Megan Hall |Rawr
I pulled up in my silver Aston Martin next to the neat two-story house. Four bedrooms, one bathroom, kitchen, parlor and family room. Out back Mum”s garden and out front the trim little yard Da” worked so hard on.
Old Grammy Jones stood in the doorway.
Grammy Jones has been living, much to my father”s displeasure, under my parents” roof. Grammy is 75 going on 200, and her mind has absolutely left the building. Her eyes practically read “Vacancy.”
If her black warm-up suit is any sort of indicator, she recently started believing she is a ninja. She also seems to think evil ninjas are trying to kill her and everyone she loves. Thus, the frantic gesturing and shrieking as I turned off the car.
“P.J.! You sit out dur any longa, you gonna get got!”
I opened my glove compartment and took a few long drinks from my flask before hopping out and jogging toward the door.
“Knees to chest!” Grammy yelled looking about for any bad guys.
I thought longingly back to my flask in the car as I was ushered inside by Crazy Cat Lady”s crazier third-cousin.
My 17-year-old nephew Ashton Martin stood to greet me in the hallway. (Don”t blame me, my sister was the one who thought it was funny). I took in his costume. He wore a black bomber and white T-shirt with jeans and converse. He was a younger male version of myself. A laugh danced in his sapphire eyes.
We greeted each other with one of those complicated young-people handshakes.
“Nice, Ash,” I commented.
“Naturally. My PI aunt knows what to rock,” came the quick reply.
“Smarmy bastard,” I laughed ruffling his sandy hair.
I stuck my head into the family room. My father”s red mane stuck out around the sides and top of the chair. He seemed to be taking a quick kip, so I turned to leave him to the annoying white and blue light of the telly.
I sauntered my way into the kitchen, following the smell of pork chops.
“Hiya, Mum,” I said, swiping some frosting off the cake on my way by.
Mum waved a knife and went back to murdering the vegetables.
“We have a few more guests coming. Why don”t you greet them?” she asked over her shoulder.
Interpretation: don”t let Grammy scream at them through the screen door and make us look like an even more dysfunctional family.
I grabbed a mouthful of frosting as I went to sit on the stoop steps. After a few minutes, I saw a neighbor heading across the lawn with some high schoolers in tow. One of them I recognized as Sammi Spencer, Ashton”s girlfriend.
“Hi P.J.!” she called happily, waving a leather gloved hand.
“Ashton”s watching the telly with Da,” I said as the costumed girl ran past.
Someone cleared their throat at the foot of the steps.
To my surprise, and not pleasure, there stood one of Chicago”s finest, Detective James Holmes.
Even if he was only half as handsome as he actually was, I”d still get flustered every time I saw him. My face must have twisted into a quasi-grin-grimace, because Holmes snorted. Behind Holmes stood a quiet girl, introduced by the detective as his niece.
I beckoned for them to follow me into the house where Mum was just putting supper on the table. I was seated between Holmes and Grammy and had to spend half of the time ignoring the cantankerous old broad”s questions about my gun or ignoring the more pointed allusions of my mother to the young successful man.
I found myself yearning for the safety of my car. Unfortunately, dinner was just the beginning. There was still the Haunted House to go to and I knew it was going to be a long night.
***
I resisted the urge to sigh. Or yawn. So far the Haunted House was a bust. I mean, a bloody freaking ghost? I doubt a five-year-old would be scared by that.
I heard Sammi and Ashton laughing in front of me. They kept egging each other on. From what I gathered, Sammi convinced Ashton to walk through the “Ghoul Lair” with a blindfold. I rolled my eyes heavenward. This stuff is just dumb.
Holmes walked casually alongside me. I could sense him glancing in my direction every once in a while, but I resisted the urge to comb my red-brown hair with my fingers. Luckily I had it cut into a bob. Hair can”t look messy in a bob. Unless it is 6 a.m. and I haven”t had coffee. Then it is questionable.
“So what are you afraid of?” Holmes asked stepping out of the way of a screaming teen.
I tilted my head with the hint of a smile, but said nothing.
Before Holmes could say anything, an ear-piercing scream filed the dark corridor. I recognized Sammi”s hysterical voice and rushed around the corner. Ashton looked up at me with his hands covered in blood.
Lying on the ground, staring blankly up at the ceiling, was Hamlet, whom last I knew was Principal Josef LeRad.
To be continued “¦
Claire Whitley can be reached at [email protected]