Frankenstein's Guide (Book 1, the LiteraTours Cozy Mystery Series)

Chapter 8: Nightfall - Part 1

Image by Kah Lok Leong from Unsplash

8/9 Free Chapters

It was seven in the evening and still that idiot woman hadn't responded to Gary's calls. Not that Brigitte had been any more successful. At some point she had sent a message she was about to escort the group to dinner, leaving him alone to prowl a sitting room besieged by shadows and a volley of questions. How on earth had Ms Wordsworth managed to lose one of her charges in the water works? Where was the guy now and what state might he be in? Other than wet, obviously.

Visions of compensation claims shot across his mind, like clay pigeons fired from a trap. He didn't own a gun; his hands were empty, so all he could do was sit and watch stupid game shows. Or hobble around to keep the mind babble at bay. How he hated not being in control. It went against his sense of duty and decorum, drilled into him from a very young age. The lords of Nettlehole might well have lost their ancestral home and the trappings that came with it, but the sense of duty still prevailed, a beast of burden mentality that had propelled his ancestors into insect-filled jungles, dusty deserts, and other places suffering from a climate incompatible with Celtic genes.

His toes hit Jon's football and sent it rolling towards the settee. Suddenly, the musky stink of the room registered, and he wondered when somebody had last opened the big folding doors to the terrace, one of the house's "unique features", as the salesman had enthused. With a growl, Gary limped towards the row of dark window panes and yanked at the handle. At first, it resisted, but after another determined pull the handle capitulated, and he pushed the panels aside, throwing the place wide open to air heavy with the scent of wood smoke, rotting apples and a crispness that signalled the coming frost.

From behind him, light fell into the room. "What's for dinner, Dad?" asked Jon.

That was a very valid question. One he didn't have an answer to.

"Let's check out the fridge, shall we?"

"Why are the doors open? It's freezing in here."

Jon was obviously not born to become an arctic explorer. "It stinks. We need fresh air occasionally."

Jon hugged himself. "That fresh air of yours is disgusting."

Gary sighed. "We'll leave them open for five minutes, okay?"

Together, they turned their backs on autumn and made their way into the kitchen. Jon hurrying along and Gary hopping after him like the lame duck he was. He didn't expect much, and he found even less: The fridge was empty apart from a half-full bottle of orange juice, five eggs and a pack of butter that looked as if it got injured in a car pile-up. Geriatric lettuce and a Tupperware box with leftover pizza, curling at the edges, completed the mix. It also smelled somewhat fusty.

Emma would have freaked had she been around.

"How about an omelette?"

Jon pulled a face. "Not again. We had one yesterday. Burger?"

Only iron control stopped Gary from fielding the question with the—admittedly correct—answer they had one the day before yesterday. And pizza the day before that. Though, by the looks of the leftovers, that might have been last week. Had his diet really grown so one-sided?

He grunted and was closing the fridge when Gladys sauntered into the kitchen with a flick of her fluffy orange tail. Gary groaned again. If they now were out of cat food, he would—do what? Scream? No, that would spook the boy. And the cat, most likely.

Jumping from the nearest bridge was also out of the question, Jon had only one parent left and the surviving set of grandparents, Emma's mother and father, were lost in grief over the death of their only child.