Once we’re trundling back toward Pin Cherry proper, I spill my story.
“So, Liliané was murdered. Her ghost is haunting the house. And she sort of hired me to solve the case.”
Silas laughs openly. “And here I was assuming you were experiencing possible digestive discordance.”
“For the record, she’s as awful as everyone says.”
Silas grins. “Not the first I’ve heard.” He taps his thumb against the steering wheel. “Will you be keeping me abreast of your plan?”
“What makes you think I have a plan?”
He takes his eyes off the road long enough to blast me with a scathing look.
“All right. There’s a plan.” I fill him in on the details as we drive to the bookshop.
He turns down the alleyway between the Duncan Restorative Justice Foundation and my bookstore. “My apologies, but I am unable to stay, Mitzy. I must complete my correspondence to the bequeathed charities before the end of the day. You’ll bring your grandmother up to speed?”
“Of course. I’m sure she’ll want me to run a subversive mission to gather dirt on Liliané while I’m in the enemy’s camp.” I chuckle as I exit the vehicle.
Silas leans across and his wise, milky-blue eyes fix me with an unreadable gaze. “Your grandmother may yet surprise you.” And with that he reverses out of the alley and disappears.
Twiggy is nowhere to be found, and the chain is securely fastened across the bottom of the circular staircase. But, to test my theory, I unhook the chain, step onto the first tread, and wait.
Silence.
She’s definitely not here.
Hooking the chain behind me, I march into my apartment, struggling to remove my bobby pins and the now itchy wig. “Grams? Grams, do you want to hear the plan or not?”
Another round of silence.
Where is everyone? Doesn’t she want to hear what I did?
Pyewacket pushes himself to a seated position on the large four-poster bed and stretches one paw to the side, almost as though he’s resting it on his hip. “Don’t you want to hear what I did?”
My Bladder Control 101 training comes in handy, but I can’t stop my jaw from dropping. “Robin Pyewacket Goodfellow, did you actually speak to me?”
“Oh, Mitzy. You should’ve seen your face, dear.”
My mouth is still hanging open and I can’t figure out what I’m seeing. Pyewacket’s head is bobbing back and forth and his jaw is moving as though he’s speaking to me.
“Grams? Is that you? Are you working Pyewacket like a ventriloquist dummy?”
“In a manner of speaking. I think I’ve successfully possessed him.”
A shock ripples across my skin, and I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Get out of that cat! You have completely crossed the line, Isadora. That sentient animal can’t give his consent.” I rush toward Pyewacket and, as soon as my left arm scoops around him and my magicked mood ring touches his skin, the apparition of my grandmother bolts out of my precious fur baby.
Pyewacket cuddles against me, and I’ve honestly never seen him act so helpless or afraid.
“Grams, what’s gotten into you? It’s not like you to treat Pyewacket so disrespectfully. Is something wrong? I mean, really wrong?”
She blows across the apartment like an angry storm cloud and sinks onto the scalloped-backed chair. “Three more rejection letters today.”
“What are you talking about? I feel like you’ve dropped me into one of those Memento-style movies that use backward storytelling to reveal the twist. Who was rejected and from what?”
She throws her head back and lays a misty forearm dramatically across her brow. “The publishers. They rejected my memoirs.”
The hairs on the back of my neck spike. “How would they even know about your memoirs? You didn’t start writing them until after you were dead.”
She sighs and smooths the folds of her Marchesa gown. “I wrote the query letters, dear. I sent out nearly thirty in the last two or three months. I can’t be sure. Time has so little meaning.”
“You’re writing letters from beyond the grave? Don’t you think that’s the reason you’re getting rejected? If these publishers have half a brain, they would definitely look up the name of the author. Seeing that the author is dead, I’m assuming that’s why they’re rejecting the manuscript. But I’d be happy to give it a read if you want some notes.”
“Notes? From a girl who barely has more than twenty years on this planet? I think not. You do know what a life I’ve led, right?”
“Grams, this is so not you. I get that you’re upset about the rejections, but you might have to send out a hundred letters or maybe even two hundred letters before you find the right publisher.”
“They don’t know who they’re dealing with. I once had a martini delivered to the top of the Eiffel Tower.”
The hands that were busily consoling Pyewacket fall still. “That’s the second time I’ve heard that story today.” I narrow my gaze and study Ghost-ma.
A guilty flash of self-consciousness spins through my grandmother’s translucent eyes. “You don’t say. Who else told you that story? Silas?”
“The ghost of Liliané Barnes. And in her version, she ordered the martini.”
Grams rockets across the room. “What? Now she’s a ghost? That woman will never get tired of imitating me. How does she look? Did she choose a younger age? Is she younger than me?”
“Good grief. If I never see this side of you again, it’ll be too soon.” I roll my eyes far longer than necessary. “Are you saying she stole the story from you? Because I’m supposed to work at her mansion tomorrow and investigate her murder, so I’d kinda like to know if she’s a con artist.”
“Oh, she’s a con artist. I think she’s a little more than that, but I could never get absolute proof.” Grams swirls around, lost in a fog of memories.
Unfortunately, I have to interrupt. “Is it your story or hers?”
“Both.”
“You’re going to have to expand on that, Missy.”
“I met Liliané, back when she was Lillian, while Max and I were drinking our way across Europe. You remember Max, dear, my second husband?”
I nod. “I’m familiar.”
“Well, Max and I were all about parties, booze, gambling, and buying our way into the upper crust across the pond. Lillian seemed to be a few steps ahead of us and she took an immediate liking to Max. She invited us onto a yacht in the Mediterranean for a couple of weeks and then we all headed to France, via Italy. She would disappear for a few days here and there, and she mentioned she had a lot of family back in the states. She was always sending gifts and packages, but when we reached Paris—things came to a head.”
She pauses to collect her thoughts, and Pyewacket climbs onto my lap, spilling off either side of the ample platform.
“Everything started out glorious, as things always do in Paris. We stood at the top of the Eiffel Tower and I mused about how fantastic it would be to sip martinis as the sun set. With a snap of her fingers Lillian made it happen. And one martini led to five, and I woke up in the belly of a rowboat floating in the Seine, with no sign of Max.”