Joker in the Pack (Romantic Suspense, Completed, Watty Winner)

Chapter 7

"Eleanor Rigby? Is this some sort of joke?"

Why on earth had a stranger showed up on my doorstep asking if I knew an old Beatles song?

The man gave a little cough. "No, I'm not joking, I assure you. Do you know her?"

"What do you mean, her?"

"Eleanor Rigby."

"The song?"

"No, the person."

"I'm ever so sorry, but I have no idea what you're talking about."

Why me? Was this karma's idea of a joke? I'd left a few little gifts for Edward in his house, and in return, I was destined to meet every weirdo in East London?

"You're not the daughter of Frank and Victoria Porter, then?"

My eyes widened. How did he know that? Okay, this was getting a little creepy. Not quite as creepy as Margot, the tarantula, but close.

"Yes, I am, but who are you?"

"Mickey Scudamore." He held out a hand, and I shook it out of habit. "I work for a company called Heir Today, Gone Tomorrow."

"What's that got to do with me? Or my parents?"

"My research suggested you might have an aunt called Eleanor Rigby."

Eleanor Rigby... Eleanor... Ellie... Aunt Ellie? Dim memories of a childhood birthday party surfaced. A plump lady handing me a bowl of jelly and ice cream before she sat back down next to my mother. I'd seen her a handful of times before that day, and every time she visited, Mother had worn a scowl.

"I do have an Aunt Ellie, but I never knew her surname."

"Do you know where she is?"

"I haven't seen her since I was seven years old. Maybe eight. Look, what's this all about? I'm busy with work."

Well, busyish. Choosing the perfect shade of pink for Longacres' homepage background was a very important job.

"My company looks for unclaimed estates and tries to reunite them with their rightful beneficiaries. I'm sorry to tell you this, but I think your aunt died a couple of months ago."

But he didn't seem particularly sorry. More...hopeful.

His words slowly sank in. Aunt Ellie was dead? By rights, I should have felt sad at the news, but I'd barely known her.

And when I scratched around in the recesses of my mind, I vaguely remembered shouting. A row. Mother rarely shouted, but that day, she'd yelled long and loud at Aunt Ellie while I hid in my bedroom with my father.

"Why's Mum cross with Aunt Ellie?" I'd asked him.

He'd shrugged. "Those two have never got on. Like chalk and cheese."

"What do you mean, chalk and cheese?"

"Never mind, Livvie. Why don't we read a story?"

At that age, I had more important things to worry about than Aunt Ellie and her absence. Ballet lessons and frilly dresses, if I recalled correctly. Mother had begun teaching me to act like a lady as soon as I learned to walk.

Indeed, I'd barely thought about Ellie at all until Mickey turned up at my door. And now she was dead?

"I'm sorry to hear about her passing," was the best I could come up with. "Should I send flowers?"

"The funeral's already happened. I spoke to the priest, Father McKenzie, and he said nobody came."

Now, that made me sad. Imagine going through your whole life and meaning so little to anybody that all you were worth was an empty church and a sermon nobody heard.