Between a Ghost and a Spooky Place (Ghosts of London Book 1) Read online

  Chapter 8

  “And when were you going to tell me?!” he cried. Jarrett loved his mother. Even though he and his father had their spats and minor squabbles, there was one thing they had in common: a deep love and affection for Pearl Zephyr-Thornton, née Blewett, wife of Jarrett Zephyr-Thornton II and loving mother to Jarrett Zephyr-Thornton III.

  “Your mother didn’t want you to worry,” his father now said. “She knew you were involved in some important project or other and didn’t want you to lose focus.” He snapped his fingers. “What was it again? The world’s first commercial spaceline? First civilian on the moon?”

  “Oh, that,” Jarrett said with a wave of the hand. “That’s ancient history.” He didn’t dare say he’d chucked the project after some of his passengers had managed to crash the aircraft. As it was, Jarrett was a lifelong searcher for the meaning of life—his own life, that was. With a father who had nine billion pounds to his name he’d always found it exceedingly difficult to find a goal in life that didn’t consist of partying until he dropped, sleeping it off, and doing it all again the next day.

  He’d done that for as long as he could remember, but lately he’d realized this wasn’t much of a life, and had begun a search for a deeper and more rewarding existence. He’d thought he’d found it several times. Like when he’d started his space program, or when he’d decided to travel the world in a hot air balloon. Or become a race car driver and participate in Formula One. Or try his hand at the game of polo and invest in a stable of first-class polo horses. All these endeavors had only managed to ensnare his attention for the briefest time, and now, as his mother lay dying, he realized that his latest passion, to compete at a professional level as a figure skating champion, was simply another one of his ill-fated attempts to add meaning to an empty life. At thirty-one, he was hardly a child prodigy, and he now saw he’d never be as good as the Ice Princess.

  “What was in that package?” he insisted as he took a seat on the edge of his four-poster and eyed his father curiously. “Some kind of cure for Mother?”

  “It was a book,” explained his father finally.

  “A book?” Whatever he’d expected, it certainly wasn’t this.

  “Yes, a book!” repeated his father irritably. “A book that was stolen from its rightful owner two weeks ago.” He sighed. “With it, your mother could have been saved. Without it…” He sagged some more. “Without it, there is no hope, I’m afraid.” He lifted a feeble hand. “When I landed early this morning I talked to that valet of yours—and when he told me you never went to pick up the parcel I decided to go over there myself. But when I got there they informed me it was long gone.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “They wouldn’t tell me. You see, this is no ordinary book, son. I don’t know too much about it. All I know is that this book has healing powers if used correctly and by the right person.”

  Jarrett crooked an eyebrow. “Healing powers,” he repeated dubiously. “Are you sure this isn’t some scam?”

  “Pretty sure,” his father said. “And even if it is, it’s worth a shot.”

  “So how does this work, exactly? You read Mother a few choice passages every night and before you know it she’s healed?” He didn’t hide his sarcasm.

  “I don’t know!” said the old man peevishly. “I was supposed to pick it up and deliver it back to the rightful owner. He’s the only one who knows how to use the book and extract its hidden secrets.”

  “And who is this guy? Anyone I know?”

  “He’s the Elder of the Absinthians, an ancient Chinese church. Elders have used the book over the centuries to heal their disciples and those they deem deserving. We learned of the book when we traveled to China on the instigation of one of my business contacts there. He said perhaps the Absinthians could save Pearl. When we arrived at their temple and applied for an audience with the Elder, we were in luck, for he decided to grant our wish. The ceremony was going to take place two weeks ago in London, at the Absinthian temple in the Thames Gateway area, beyond Canary Wharf. But then the book was stolen, and the ceremony was called off. It popped up again last night, only to disappear when you failed to intercept it.”

  “Why didn’t these Absinthians intercept it themselves?”

  His father hesitated. “The thing is… this book doesn’t just heal people. According to them it can even turn people immortal.”

  “Immortal!”

  “Look, I’m just repeating what the Elder said. And he looked pretty ancient to me. The problem is, the book can only be handled by mortals. Like you and me. Or like the woman who used to handle the book for the Elder. She’s the one who stole it, apparently, and sold it to the highest bidder.”

  “So these Absinthians… they’re all immortal?”

  His father nodded. “Yes, they are. And the worst part? They’re only in London for another couple of days. Then they’re returning to China, along with their offer to heal your mother. And I don’t think they’ll reconsider.”

  Though the story sounded almost too fantastic to be true, Jarrett knew his father too well not to see he was telling the truth. Father wasn’t one to believe in fairy tales or some weird mumbo jumbo like immortal beings. If he said these Chinese dudes could save his mother, he wasn’t kidding. He now looked properly contrite. “I’m sorry, Father. But why didn’t you call me back?”

  “My phone went all screwy on me.” Then he threw up his hands in a gesture of utter defeat. “Oh, what’s the use? It’s too late now. The book is gone, and so, very soon now, your mother will be too.”

  Jarrett felt steely determination creep over him. “Not if I can help it. I’m going to find that book, and I’m going to deliver it to these Absinthians.”

  Jarrett Sr eyed him sorrowfully. “There’s simply no way, son. The book is gone, and will never be found again. According to the Elder it has fallen into the wrong hands, and they will never let go of it again.”

  “Whose hands?”

  He shook his gray head. “He didn’t say. Said it was out of his hands.”

  “Well, it’s not out of my hands. I’m going after that book, Father.” He patted his old man on the shoulder. “We’re not going to let Mother die.”

  His pater displayed a feeble smile. “Oh, Jarrett…”

  It irked him to see so little confidence reflected in his father’s eye, but then he knew he’d never given him much reason to trust him. All his life he’d been nothing but a wastrel, pursuing dreams that other people would consider pointless. But now, for the first time in his life, he suddenly felt real zeal animating his bosom. This was a goal worth fighting for. This was something to really sink his teeth into, even the ones he’d had outfitted with diamond studs back when he wanted to be the world’s biggest rock star.

  This was where he was going to make a difference and show the world that Jarrett Zephyr-Thornton III wasn’t just another Instagram rich kid.

  He was going to find that book and save his mother.

  But first things first. For he’d suddenly become aware of a gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach, and he was quick to diagnose its cause. And its remedy. So without further delay, he rang the bell to summon his valet.

  The obsequious little man promptly appeared. “Did you ring, sir?”

  “Fix us some breakfast, will you, Deshawn?”

  “Of course, sir. Eggs, sir?”

  “Scrambled, please. We’re going on a quest, Deshawn.”

  “You don’t say, sir.”

  “I do say. A quest to save a life, no less!”

  “Most admirable, sir. Maple syrup or jam this morning?”

  “Both. You and I are going to save my mother’s life, Deshawn.”

  “I can’t wait, sir. Chocolate milk or tea?”

  “Chocolate milk. And when we’re done saving my mother’s life, we’re going to become men of spirit, Deshawn.”

  “Excellent, sir. Wheat or rye for your toast, sir?”

  “Wheat. We’re go
ing to become immortal, Deshawn. Absinthians!”

  “Sounds wonderful, sir. And what can I get for you, Mr. Zephyr-Thornton, sir?”

  “Coffee. Black,” mumbled the old man brokenly.

  It annoyed Jarrett that his father appeared to show so little enthusiasm, but he tried not to care. At the grand old age of thirty-one he had finally found his purpose in life, and he wasn’t going to allow a Gloomy Gus like his father to spoil his big moment.

  “Oh, and Deshawn? Put out the navy blue twill suit, will you?”

  “The one with the hidden stripe, sir?”

  “That’s the one.” He expanded his chest. “Today is going to be a wonderful day, Deshawn. I can feel it in my bones.”

  “Very well, sir,” murmured Deshawn. “Will that be all, sir?”

  He thought for a moment. “Do draw me a bath, will you? With some of that Harry Potter soap I like so much? The one with the magic bubbles?”

  “Of course, sir. Right away, sir.”

  He might be on a quest to save lives—his mother’s in particular—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t do it in style. After all, what distinguished man from beast if not the proper attire and the right scent? If he was going to become immortal, at least he should go about it the proper way, and not half-cocked.

  Chapter 9

  Harry had just closed the door behind Darian when her Skype announced that someone wanted to have a word. Fully expecting to find Alice’s cheerful face staring back at her, she was surprised to find her uncle’s scowl instead taking up most of the screen’s real estate.

  “Uncle Curtis!” she cried. “What a pleasant surprise!”

  “I’ve been hearing some strange things about you, Harry,” her uncle announced gruffly, as was his custom. He didn’t look very pleased.

  He was a stocky man with a perpetual scowl plastered on his jowly face, steely gray eyes surveying the world in search of mischief makers and law breakers. And currently he seemed to feel Harry was up to no good.

  “What did you hear?” she asked, wondering what Alice had told him.

  “I was talking to Darian—Inspector Watley to you—great guy by the way—very cooperative and a real credit to his profession—did you know we used to frequent his mother’s dinner parties when Demitria and I were in London?—that woman could throw one mean party, let me tell you—and he told me you’re withholding evidence. Something about a delivery you made to some lowlife piece of scum.”

  “Not a lowlife piece of scum, Uncle,” she corrected him. “A client.”

  “Same difference. You have to tell Darian all about it, Harry. He’s a copper and he can make things really difficult for you over there.”

  “I already talked to him,” she reassured him. “And everything is fine. He even ate one of my pancakes and told me he liked it.”

  “So you told him about this rotten piece of no-good skunk?”

  “I described the client and Inspector Watley seems to know who he is, even though he wouldn’t tell me. Something about the sanctity of the investigation.”

  “Yeah, he’s really big on that. But don’t mind him. Tell me. Who is this guy? And why were you secretly meeting him under the underpass?”

  She bit her lip. Her uncle made it seem as though she’d had a romantic rendezvous with this gold-tooth man. “He was just a customer, Uncle Curtis. I had to deliver a book for Buckley and take reception of his payment.” She refrained from telling him she’d received a million pounds for the book. She didn’t see any need to involve him even further. In fact she was already regretting having asked Alice to include her father. Uncle Curtis could be quite forceful and meddlesome when he wanted to be. He liked to think he was Harry’s guardian and needed to keep her safe from harm at all times.

  “Anyway, everything is all right now,” she said therefore. “I’m not a suspect in Inspector Watley’s investigation any longer, and I doubt I’ll ever see him again.” For some strange reason this irked her. She liked the tall and handsome copper and had been looking forward to asking him a few questions of her own. Like whether he was married or had a girlfriend, for instance. And if not, why not? She wondered if he’d refuse to answer those questions as well, claiming the sanctity of his investigation.

  “I’ll have another word with Darian,” grumbled Uncle Curtis. “He and I are working this case together now. American and British police joining forces to catch the rat bastard who killed that employer of yours.”

  “That’s great, Uncle. I’m sure that the two of you will catch his killer.”

  “So what are your plans, Harry? Now that you’re out of a job, I mean.”

  She sighed. “I don’t know. It took me quite a long time to find this job, and now that Buckley’s gone…” She doubted whether having her employer murdered would improve her chances of finding another job. In interviews, the question of why she left her previous position would undoubtedly crop up. And explaining her employer was murdered might lead to awkward pauses.

  “How are you on money? Do you want me to wire you some?”

  “No, I’m fine. I manage to live quite frugally.”

  “You’re looking a little pale, honey,” said Uncle Curtis, his voice now surprisingly tender. “Are you sure you’re all right? If you want, you can stay with us for a while. Demitria will take good care of you and Alice would be delighted. We all would.”

  The offer sounded very tempting, and she was inclined to accept it. “You know, perhaps a little bit later,” she said. “I’d like to wait until they catch the killer. Inspector Watley told me to keep myself available for the investigation.”

  Uncle Curtis gave her an understanding smile. “Of course. Don’t you worry about a thing, hon. Darian and I are going to catch the bastard, and then you can cross the pond and have a nice long stay with us while you figure out what you want to do next.”

  “Sounds great, Uncle Curtis,” she said gratefully. “I can’t wait.”

  She rang off and stared before her for a bit. What was she going to do? That was the big question. It hadn’t been easy to land this job at Buckley Antiques, and she hadn’t exactly kept abreast of the job market. But then the doorbell rang, interrupting her thoughts, and she hopped up to press the button on the intercom. “Yes?”

  A gruff voice announced, “Delivery for Miss Henrietta McCabre.”

  “I’m coming!” she caroled, and pressed the buzzer to let the man in.

  When she hurried to the landing to meet the delivery guy, she saw he was already on his way up, taking the stairs two at a time, clearly in a hurry. She leaned over the balustrade. “Oh, you didn’t have to come up!” she yelled.

  The man looked up and suddenly flashed two gold teeth. “That’s all right, Harry. I don’t mind a little exercise.”

  With a yelp of surprise she jumped away from the balustrade, just as he reached the landing. She hurried into her flat and moved to close the door but too late. He was already upon her, shoving a foot in the door and pushing it open with such force she was propelled into the room. She watched as he stood there, his gold teeth glittering fiendishly in the morning sunlight.

  “Hello there, Harry,” he sneered. “So we meet again, eh?”

  Chapter 10

  Jarrett languidly finished his plate of scrambled eggs and watched with satisfaction as Deshawn laid out his suit for the day. He liked to be well-dressed for any occasion, and most certainly for this, his most important assignment ever. He’d never actually done anything worthwhile in his life, he now realized, and this would be the first time he’d be saving a life. And not just any life either, but the life of his mother, who meant the world to him.

  He rose from the table with a satisfied grunt, pressing a monogrammed napkin to his lips and allowing it to drop from his manicured fingers onto the empty plate, then took a sip of freshly squeezed OJ. Even though he was on a mission to save a life, that didn’t mean he allowed himself to be rushed.

  His father had left half an hour before, unable to stand the sigh
t of his son devouring his breakfast without digging in himself. Since Jarrett Sr had a weak stomach and was on a very strict diet, it was pure torture to have to watch other people eat, and especially Jarrett, who was a great trencherman.

  “Don’t worry, Dad,” he’d said by way of goodbye. “I’m going to find that book and we’re going to use the ancient tome to save Mother’s life.”

  “Sure, sure,” the old man had said, not sounding overly enthusiastic. In fact it appeared as if he didn’t really believe Jarrett could actually pull it off.

  And as he now sat gazing out the window at the busy street below, red double-deckers making their way through traffic, black taxicabs crawling along like beetles to pick up passengers, and well-clad guests striding out from under the Ritz-Carlton awning, he wondered how to go about this. It seemed obvious that his first port of call was Chinatown, where the package had last been seen. And as a plan slowly formed in his nebulous brain, he decided to simply follow the book, as it were, and wondered why no one else had thought to do the same. But then they weren’t Jarrett Zephyr-Thornton III, of course. And as he got dressed, he briefly wondered why this mysterious Absinthian Church hadn’t involved the police. If this book was as important to them as all that, its theft must have been a devastating blow.

  As soon as he’d put the finishing touches on his costume, he strode from the suite with an airy, “Don’t wait up for me, Deshawn. I’ll be back when I’ll be back.” Deshawn gave him a curious look. It rarely happened that Jarrett ventured out all by himself. Usually he liked to take his valet along, if only to be a sounding board for any new idea that might creep into his head.

  But not today. Today he was going to write history, and he didn’t want Deshawn along to cramp his style. So he strode along the plush corridor of the Ritz-Carlton and rode the elevator down all by himself. Once outside, the doorman hailed a taxicab, and when he was settled in, he ordered the man to take him to Gerrard Street. And as the trusty vehicle traversed the famous thoroughfare Piccadilly and the crowds bustling at Piccadilly Circus, he was pleased to see the sun having made a triumphant return after two weeks of dreariness. Nevertheless, he’d brought his umbrella. Having been born and raised in the capital, he knew just how capricious the weather could be, and he wouldn’t be caught dead in one of London’s particularly nasty rainstorms. The cab quickly whisked him across town and delivered him to the doorstep of the auspicious Chinese restaurant Xing Ming his father had told him about. And as he strolled in, head held aloft, he twirled his umbrella.