Sibylline Greetings (Book 2, the LiteraTours Cozy Mystery Series)

Chapter 4 - It's a hard life - Part 2

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The Mini bounced over the last pothole in the road, turned onto the driveway, and came to a standstill. Gary turned off the motor, but then he sat there, staring at nothing, the ticking sounds made by the engine a background noise to the thoughts roaring through his head.

Outside, a gale flashed at the trees, their leaves scattering like yellow confetti. Only Early November, but autumn was in full swing. The nasty part. The one that came complete with fog, grey skies, plummeting temperatures and moisture everywhere, even in places where it did not belong.

Like the attic which had recently sprung a leak, despite the house being so new.

A bucket took care of the seepage until the roofer would deign to show his pimpled face. That bucket wouldn't fix the Jon problem, however.

How far would Bill go? Sandie was well-meaning and mostly harmless, but she followed her husband's lead. Involving his in-laws had gone against Gary's grain, but he needed to solve Jon's school troubles and do so fast. Well, he might have succeeded on that point.

But at what cost?

With a sigh, Gary pushed the car door open and levered himself upright. At least the foot was improved. Two weeks of sessions with the physiotherapist—who seemed to draw his inspirations from the London Dungeon—had seen to that. Crutches were still a must, but with them, he could walk almost without a limp.

Gary unlocked the front door and let himself into his box of a house. Starter home the salesman had called it when they signed two years ago.

What a joke. The place was heavy on the starter and easy on the home.

Especially now that the place was deadly quiet, reeking of the disinfectants the new cleaner loved spritzing all over the floors, handles and light switches.

Gary shrugged out of his coat, made for the kitchen and opened the fridge.

A jar of Branston Pickle, an open carton of milk from where emanated a worrisome sour smell and some greenery lurking in the veg compartment. He opened it and spotted a cucumber going to mush and depressed lettuce.

That state of affairs called for another pub dinner.

Gary ripped the last kitchen paper off the roll and dumped the offensive veg into the bin.

Which greeted him with the stink of cat food sitting inside for way too long. With a snarl, he yanked at the bin liner, removed and knotted it. Now, all he had to do was remember to take it outside.

The door to the kitchen creaked ajar, and a furry orange shape squeezed through the gap.

"Meow!"

"Pleased to see you, Gladys. And no, it's not time for dinner yet. Got to get some work done first."

Gladys was not amused. She followed him into the stuffy box squeezed under the stairs that passed for his office, hopped up on his desk and plonked herself on his keyboard, purring.

"Will you shift your hairy behind!"

He pushed at the warm little body, but the cat refused to budge.

With a sigh, Gary swung around on his office chair and reached for the post the cleaner had brought in.

Invoices, more invoices, advertising, a takeover bid, even more invoices—hang on, what? With sudden mirth bubbling in his throat he skimmed over the ridiculous proposal before dumping it on the rubbish pile.

Well, if the competition thought LiteraTours was worth buying, his business model seemed to be working, no matter what Bill said.

Bill.