Chapter 44 - All roads lead to Rome

Image by Tom Wheatley from Unsplash

It was late. Gary was tired. There was no other explanation why Aline's comment didn't register sooner.

"What do you mean by the 'two of you'? Jon came with me, and there isn't much to sort out with his him, it's my esteemed father-in-law who needs it."

"Gary, don't insult my intelligence. Or yours," Lorna said, exasperation dripping from every word. "You know exactly what I'm on about."

Really? Well, he had a fair idea what the dear lady was hinting at, but to even think about that was preposterous. Emma had only been dead over a year. He was almost forty, not interested in females and even if he were, Ike was the least likely contender for his affections.

His inner eye beamed a projection of the blasted female on the kitchen wall opposite him, marred by the dents made by the fridge door. They were recent, of course. Emma had never been partial to mindless male neglect or even violence. Ike, could not be more different. Impertinent, opinionated and so ornery she eclipsed the most stubborn of mules.

Yes, and attractive as anything with her blond mop, brown-flecked green eyes, those adorable freckles and her cuddly figure . . .

Gary felt a stirring in his nether regions. Somebody was not at all tired, it appeared. And Lorna might well be right, curse her. Or at least not entirely wrong.

What if Ike is a killer?

He blanked out the voice, switched off his internal beamer and thought of ice bucket challenges.

Lorna seemed to take his silence for agreement. "You're not even forty. Much too young to go without a—soulmate for too long."

"My soul is just fine, thank you." It came out harsher than he had intended. "Look, I appreciate what you're trying to do—"

"No, you're not. You think me a meddling old biddy who's way off target," the amusement was still there, fluffy and sweet like summer pudding. "Well, we shall see, and in the meantime I shall meddle no more. Whatever you do, you need to look after Ike. The poor darling, all on her onesome lonesome in that hotel."

Aline said something he couldn't understand. "What was that?"

"Oh, Aline just suggested we should fly to Rome."

"Under no circumstances!" They would switch into full Miss Marple mode and go after the killer armed with laptop computers and lemon biscuits. "I'm okay if you take Jon, but this is out of the question."

"Excellent, then we're all settled. Check with the boy, but I'm sure he'll love it. And you needn't worry, we can go on a few local trips first and keep looking after LiteraTours. Once you have got on top of your little murder problem, we'll dash off to Paris."

Foiled by two Sexagenarians. Not just the time of day, he was losing the plot.

The doorbell rang.

"Dad! That'll be the burgers," Jon hollered from above.

"Okay, can we sort this out tomorrow? I'm tired, my son is so ravenous he will eat the cat if I don't get his grub on the table like now, the cat has got nothing to eat, and my brain is shutting down."

Lorna's laughter trilled in his ears all the way to the front door where the deliveryman was waiting.

They say the world looks better after a good night's rest, but Gary, who wasn't much of a dreamer, got chased by the mares all night. He only caught the much-needed REM sleep when the fog outside shifted from "you can't see anything anyway because it's night" to "you can't see much despite it being day".

No more burgers and chips close to midnight, it was a sure recipe for disaster. Gary whipped out his phone to check for responses to his (admittedly brief) message he sent right in the middle of the witching hour.

There were none. At least none from Ike. Brigitte, bless her reliable French soul, had not only found her colleague alive and thriving but had also wasted no time to patch yesterday's rift.

He dropped a message for both, then gave his son the good news.

And the news was great to judge by the big grin on Jon's face. Yes, he would have preferred his father to take him, but hey, he wouldn't look a gift quadruped in the mouth. Lorna and Aline somehow were "rad" despite their age. Gary didn't dare ask how they managed.

Instead, he kicked the boiler back into action and even remembered to call the local handyman before setting to buy enough stuff to fill up whatever fridges, freezers and larders lurked on the premises.

On his way back, he found himself part of a queue rolling through the drizzly mist. At the last minute, he turned off and not towards the warren.

Towards the cemetery that had given Emma's body a grudging home.

###

Hers was the grave at the end of the row, shoved in as an afterthought by a cemetery officer who would have liked nothing better than to say no. But not to Lady Nettlehole. Yes, she should have been buried in the family plot in faraway Devon. In hindsight, that would have been better, given how often Jon fled here whenever the going got too rough. Him escaping to Devon would have been worse.

Gary struggled up the stone treads slippery with condensation. He must not fall. Nobody would hear him in the fog that blurred the headstones and sound-proofed the world as if it somehow had mislaid itself. A dark shape materialised from the billowing white: the tall Rowan tree that shaded Emma's last resting place. Berries still hung from its branches, soon they would shrivel and fall, become a part of a quietness that wasn't meant for the living.

He kneeled down and brushed away the withered leaves that littered her headstone, a light pinkish marble that glittered in the right light. Now, it was as dull as the rest of this godforsaken landscape. Somehow, he had remembered to buy a bouquet. Michaelmas daisies in beautiful shades of pink, lavender and magenta. Emma's colours.

How could flowers still bloom when she did not?

"Oh, Em, what a mess."

Em, had she been around, would have agreed. She also would have found a solution, with that bright mind of hers. Her life had always been filled with opportunities, next good things, bright colours, cheerful sounds.

Only he had been allowed to catch her when depression struck. Ironic that in the end, it had been an aneurysm, not the darkness in her mind that killed her.

"What am I supposed to do?"

Emma's response came with the usual swiftness, even if taking the detour via his brain.

"What are you waiting for, stupid. Get your ass back to Rome."

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