Under The Mistletoe. Kerry Barrett
Twenty minutes later, the cakes were iced and crowned with marzipan ladybirds. I put them in a Tupperware box, before wiping up the mess from the black and red food colouring. I didn’t want to provoke one of Jess’s hormonal rages again. It had gone ten and I pulled off my apron. It was time to check the house one last time, before Deborah got here.
The lounge, despite Walter’s clutter, actually looked tidy. The Games Room was immaculate. So were my and Jess’s bedrooms. The bathrooms sparkled, even the doortops were dusted. I slipped into the office. Pristine. There was nothing left to do so I just had time to log onto the laptop and check Facebook.
Oh my God! Leah’s new profile photo made her look like a vampire with that red-eye. Aw, Rosy from Best Buns had set up a fan group for her new kitten. Lucy from secondary school had invited me to do a quiz on my underwear – which would, apparently, unlock secrets about my personality. I scrolled down my homepage. Poor Becca had splashed bleach on her new trousers.
Yet again I had something exciting to report, other than what I’d eaten for breakfast. After clicking onto my status, I typed: “KimCakes Ltd is finally taking off – orders are flying in!” The doorbell rang and I shut down the laptop.
Groucho beat me to the hallway and barked loudly when I opened the door. Deborah wore a cream high-necked blouse, brown tailored trousers with a matching jacket and high heels with the cutest button straps. A couple in their forties stood behind her, properly wrapped up for the weather, in smart winter coats over office clothes – they had obviously taken time off work.
‘Hello, Kimmy,’ said Deborah, crisply, without quite looking me in the eye. Well, she must feel sheepish for failing to tell me I must love ghosts.
‘This is Mr and Mrs Davis,’ she said and turned back to them. ‘As I promised, this is an impressive property. Lovingly cared for and maintained, this house has everything you’re looking for – space, real character and the perfect location which is rural yet on the commuter belt. Shall we start in the Games Room?’ She pointed them to the left. As they went in, she held my elbow. ‘Watch and learn,’ she whispered. ‘In the future, you’ll show buyers around on your own.’
‘If I’m still here,’ I whispered. ‘Why chase after our car? Forget to tell us something, did you?’
She fiddled with her watch. ‘Erm… yes, I’d had second thoughts and was trying to catch you up to say that maybe I should chase your references.’
‘Rubbish! You knew why this place was taking so long to sell. I think you were going to warn us about Mistletoe Mansion.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said and her mouth took a firm line. ‘You wanted the job, didn’t you? Looked pretty desperate, in fact. I did you a favour. It’s my neck on the line, if this place still fails to sell.’
‘And it could be my neck, literally, in the noose, if whatever’s in this house turns out to be a hangman.’
‘You said nothing fazed you – mushrooms and mice…’
‘That didn’t include supernatural beings! You withheld vital information.’
‘You weren’t exactly honest yourself. Or shall I press you for the name of the agency you work for?’
‘Um, no, you see, as we said–’
‘You get to read people pretty well in my job. I always know when someone’s lying – like so-called buyers who just want to snoop around or rival agents bullshitting about how much commission they’re on.’
‘Hellooo?’ called Mrs Davis.
‘We’ll talk later,’ said Deborah and headed into the Games Room.
I followed her in.
Wow. She was good. Awesome as this room was, only an estate agent could make it sound like the welcoming front room of an aristocrat’s house – a much better idea than my intention of schmoozing clients by saying that it was the perfect place to act out some bloody battle or sexy seduction from Game of Thrones (well, doesn’t everyone watch that show?).
‘Bedrooms, next?’ she said and I led them upstairs, disappointed to hear Deborah explain that the two rooms full of Walter’s stuff needed sorting before you could get a real sense of their space. They wouldn’t be unlocked unless the Davis’s wanted a second viewing.
‘You’ll adore this room,’ Deborah said to Mrs Davis, ‘it’s wonderfully feminine and lush.’ Gingerly, she pushed open the door to where I slept.
I gasped. How did those cushions get on the floor? Why was the ceiling lampshade hanging loose? Who’d thrown my rouge onto the walls and pulled the paintings well crooked? Groucho lay in the middle of the bed, innocently licking his paws. If he was a Great Dane he might have done some of the damage but I could hardly blame a ten inch tall Jack Russell.
‘I, um… don’t understand,’ I muttered as the buyers raised their eyebrows.
Deborah bit her lip. ‘Perhaps we should move along,’ she said in a stiff voice, ‘to the room once used as an office.’ We walked past the locked room opposite the top of the stairs to the one where’d I’d just updated my Facebook status.
‘I was just in here two minutes ago!’ I said in a high pitched voice and gazed around at the knocked over swivel chair and papers scattered across the beech desk. ‘Look, um, let’s go down to the kitchen,’ I said. That would impress them and maybe a fresh cupcake would make them forget all this mess.
‘I hope we aren’t wasting our time,’ said Mrs Davis, in a tight voice as we all walked along the landing. ‘We’re very busy people.’
‘I can’t apologise enough,’ said Deborah. She caught my eye as we followed the couple down. I shivered. Maybe the mean spirit – the one that had grabbed my foot – was back.
With bated breath, I led the way into the kitchen, praying I wasn’t about to walk into puddles of food colouring. I sighed with relief. Everything was as I’d left it, the cupcakes neatly in their box, utensils draining, flour and other ingredients presumably still in their packets. Deborah ushered the couple to look out of the window. Despite the low winter cloud, the garden still looked magnificent.
‘… and you must see the hot tub.’ Deborah led them to the French patio doors. But eyes narrow, jaws set, they stopped by the glass. Tossed to one side was the cover and clumps of flour floated on the water, along with jet black pools, just like the marzipan ladybird dots.
‘Is this some joke?’ said Mr Davis to Deborah, looking around, perhaps for some hidden camera. ‘What sort of amateurish outfit do you work for? We won’t be using you again.’
‘Wait, please…’ she spluttered and hurried after them into the hallway. It was no good. The couple slammed the front door behind them. Deborah swore under her breath and we went over to the front window to watch them leave. Luke was at the end of the drive and they were talking to him. A man carrying a large camera walked past them, heading for Melissa’s house.
‘I would say sorry for the mess.’ I stared at Deborah. ‘But you know it wasn’t my fault.’
She threw her hands in the air. ‘Happens every time – an angry couple ring me, followed by the housesitter on the phone swearing blind they had tidied up.’ She sighed. ‘I know. I should have told you, that this place is… But it sounds so stupid… Have you seen the smoke? Heard the strange gale?’
‘Yes. And the White Christmas tune.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘That’s a new one on me.’
Inside I felt kind of warm. So Walter hadn’t revealed himself to the previous sitters. Perhaps he could relate to me because I baked like his wife. Or perhaps I’d picked up psychic abilities by watching so much Most Haunted.
‘What about the lights going out?’ she said. ‘And has anything, um, physically made contact?’