Cupid's Arrow (2 page)

Mum's bookshop is a couple of streets away from our house. I made it there in time and found a customer already waiting on the doorstep. He was one of Mum's regulars, a retired lecturer called Dr Geoff Troy, who used to teach Medieval History at our local university, and who haunts the bookshop like it's his second home. He hangs around for ages, browsing, but nearly always buys something, even if it's just a tattered paperback, and Mum sometimes sits down with him for a chat and a cup of coffee if the shop isn't busy.

'Your dear mother is unwell?' he asked me anxiously as I unlocked the door. I think he's got a bit of a crush on Mum, though he looks about a hundred, with thin white hair under a tweedy hat and he uses a walking stick. Nice old guy, though. Real polite. Gentle. Sort of sweet.

I smiled at him. 'She's fine, Dr Troy. Had an important appointment with the bank, though, and so she asked me to open up.'

'Oh dear, I hope there are no problems. Bankers can be such hard men.'

He can be a bit of a stickybeak, too, old Dr Troy. I suppose his intense interest in other people's lives comes from not having much of one himself. His wife died years ago and his kids don't visit often and a lot of his old friends from uni have passed on too. So he's a bit lonely.

'It's okay, Dr Troy. Nothing Mum can't deal with.' I knew she was going to ask the bank for another loan, to extend and renovate the shop, and I knew she wasn't sure if they'd agree. The shop does okay but not all that brilliantly. Mum loves her books and her customers so much she finds it hard to ask the inflated prices other book dealers demand. But she has a good reputation and over the years she's built up this great client list, not only in Australia but all over the world too.

Dr Troy gave me a relieved smile and limped off to look at his favourite shelves on medieval history and legends, while I fired up the computer and tidied up the desk. I listened to the messages on the answering machine but there was nothing urgent. I logged onto our server and checked the emails. There were three or four from clients, ordering new books, and I printed those out because Mum likes to have a paper record of them as well. I checked the shop inventory to make sure the books that had been ordered were actually in stock, and got them down from the shelves so nobody else would buy them before we could send them off.

Time passed. Dr Troy had found a book to leaf through and was sitting in his favourite armchair at the sunny back of the shop, half-snoozing, half-reading. I made him a cup of tea. Nobody else came in. The shop was very quiet. I had done all the work I was meant to do, so I logged onto my Facebook page. I'm getting a bit sick of Facebook though, to tell you the truth, cos you get too many stupid messages asking you to do dumb stuff like send a snow globe or 'become' a werewolf and bite people or take some quiz or the other that automatically sends itself to all your friends and gets them really annoyed. So I didn't spend much time on that. Mum still wasn't back, and Dr Troy read and snoozed gently in his chair, and no-one else came in, so I went to Google, hesitated a bit, then put in 'dream interpretation'.

Up came heaps of sites – from scientific ones to way-out ones. The study of dreams and nightmares is a very unusual thing. See, no-one, not even the most hard-headed scientist, can deny dreams and nightmares exist, and that they may mean something. So you often get, even on the scientific sites, stuff that really seems quite mystical.

There are quite a lot of sites too that offer interpretations of dreams, and I've looked up a few of them in the past. But there was a new one I hadn't seen before. It was at http://dreamingholmes.googlepages.com, and was called The Casebook of Dreaming Holmes – Holmes as in Sherlock, I suppose. The description said it was the website of Dreaming Holmes, dream detective and interpreter, so just out of curiosity, I clicked onto it.

Everyone has dreams. Everyone has nightmares,
read the first words on the home page.
But to most people, the why and how and who of dreams and nightmares are a mystery too deep to be solved. And because of that, they can haunt and disturb us more than they need to. Enter Dreaming Holmes, dream detective extraordinaire!

It went on to say:
Send your dreams and nightmares to me, and I will explain what they mean. Free service, no obligation, and discretion guaranteed!

After that came the email address to send to. I stared at the page, then clicked onto the other parts of the site. In the 'About' section Dreaming Holmes described himself as a 'human dreamcatcher'. He said he was born in Scotland but then emigrated to Canada as a child, that he'd worked as a police officer for a while but then did a degree in psychology and now practised as a psychologist. There were interesting general sections on dreams and nightmares, with stuff I'd never really thought about, like how they came in different shapes, such as snapshots or scenes or stories, and how there were genres in them, just like in literature.

There was also an intriguing section called 'Some Cases', which had descriptions of dreams people had sent Dreaming Holmes, and his interpretation of them. One of the people was a girl of my own age and she'd had a nightmare sort of like mine. Dreaming Holmes' explanation was not mystical or scary at all. Sort of sensible, really. Perhaps my nightmare could be interpreted like that too, and then I could stop thinking about it. I could send it to Dreaming Holmes. It'd be like writing it down in my dream book, only better, because someone else would explain it. Someone I didn't know, who didn't know me, who wouldn't worry, like Mum would if I told her. I wouldn't send it through my normal email address. I'd get another, a Gmail or hotmail one, and send it anonymously. Just in case it was some kind of scam. You never know, with the internet. There are all sorts out there, and Mum's always telling me to be careful. Dreaming Holmes sounded okay, but you never know.

So I fixed myself up with a Gmail address, and wrote an email to Dreaming Holmes, using the pen-name of 'Caroline', which is actually my second name. I'd just hit the send button when the phone rang, startling me.

I picked it up. There was a short delay – the kind you get when some phone pest trying to sell you something rings up – and I was thinking I should put it down quick before somebody tried to sell me raffle tickets or phone packages, when a man's voice came on the line.

'Good morning. Is this Griffon's Bookshop?'

He spoke English, but with a French accent. I can tell, because Mum comes from a French family, though she's been in Australia since she was a kid. She doesn't have a French accent, but her parents do, a really strong one. Mind you, I haven't seen them in ages because they went off to live in New Caledonia when I was about eleven. And Mum and her parents don't get on that well. Anyway.

'Yes. It is. Who's speaking?'

'My name is Boron. Nicolas Boron. I wish to speak to Madame Anne Griffon.'

'She's not here right now. But she will be back soon. May I give her a message? I am her daughter, Fleur,' I said in my most polite phone voice, aware that Dr Troy had woken up and was wandering closer to the desk, a pile of books in hand.

'Good morning, Mademoiselle. Will you please ask her to call me as soon as she gets back? Here is my number.' And he rattled it off.

'You're in France,' I said, stupidly, as I wrote it down.

I could hear the smile in his voice. 'Sorry. Yes. I am.'

'Could I maybe tell Mum what it is about? Do you want to order a book?'

'I am sorry, Mademoiselle. I cannot tell you. It is private business. But you may tell her I am the legal adviser of Monsieur Raymond Dulac.'

'Raymond Dulac?' I squeaked. He was a French writer, and probably Mum's best overseas client. He'd ordered dozens and dozens of books from her over the years. He sometimes sent her signed copies of his own latest books, which were big fat fantasy novels, and once a deck of hand-illustrated tarot cards, called
La Dame du Lac –
the Lady of the Lake – which she loved. He was also the customer who had sent Mum the notebook I used as my dream book, and was really pleased when I – at Mum's prompting – wrote him a letter to thank him, and told him what I was doing with it. After that, he sent me a card every Christmas, always with a dream theme. He'd always been really happy with us and the books Mum ordered for him. But maybe he wasn't anymore, if he was sooling a 'legal adviser' on to us. 'Monsieur Boron, is anything wrong? Please tell me.'

'I am sorry, Mademoiselle. I cannot divulge any more information till I speak personally to Madame Griffon,' said Nicolas Boron primly. 'Please tell her to ring me as soon as possible.' And with that, he rang off, leaving me staring at the phone and Dr Troy staring at me.

'Bad news, pet?' he said.

I was saved from answering by the slam of a car door outside. I looked out of the window. Mum had come back. She didn't look happy and it was soon clear why.

'Bloody banks!' she said, as she swept through the door. 'No imagination, that's their problem. Oh, hello, Geoff,' she said, catching sight of Dr Troy. 'Fleur been looking after you, has she?'

'Very well, Anne. Very well indeed. She's a credit to you. A real credit.'

Mum's eyes met mine. She smiled. 'Good. I'm glad.' She turned to me. 'Is everything okay?'

'Yes,' I said, hastily, feeling Dr Troy's eyes on me but not wanting to talk about the phone call in front of him. Mum saw my expression. She knew how to deal diplomatically with the old man, and soon sent him happily on his way with an armful of books and a promise to have coffee with him next time he was in.

'Raymond Dulac's legal adviser? Is that all he said?'

'Yes, Mum. I told you.'

'But he didn't say why?'

'No. Just that it was private, and important.'

'Dear God. What's gone wrong now? I'd better have a look at things before I ring him, see if I can work out what's going on.' She sat at the computer and went into the shop client files. She tapped in Raymond Dulac's name. Up came his details, and his list of orders. The last one had been filled only two weeks ago. It was for a beautiful old book called
Elaine,
which was a retelling of a story from the legends of King Arthur. I remembered it. It was large, bound in green leather with gilt writing, and it was illustrated by the great nineteenth-century artist Gustave Doré. I remember Mum saying that Raymond Dulac was very keen on anything to do with King Arthur. He had used a lot of the stories from the legends as inspiration for his own books.

'He received it. Look, there's the note about it.' Mum sounded rather harried. 'And he hasn't ordered another one since then. I can't work out what's wrong.'

'You better call that lawyer guy,' I said.

'Mmm ... I suppose so.' She chewed on a strand of her long black hair. 'God, I could really do without this sort of hassle today!'

'Did the bank say no to the loan?'

'Something like that.' Her brown eyes flashed. 'Except they used much longer words.'

'I'm sorry.'

'So am I. We could have done with the extra space and a bit of renovating. Never mind. We might paint the place, rearrange it a bit. Cheaply. Ourselves.'

My heart sank. I could just see my holidays vanishing under a paint-roller. To stop her making plans about it right away, I said, hastily, 'Aren't you going to call that Boron guy, Mum?'

She looked at her watch. 'It'll be late over there. I'll try him this evening, when it'll be their morning.'

'But he was on the phone only fifteen minutes ago. He's probably still up.'

She sighed. 'I suppose you're right. Better to know the worst straightaway. Okay, give me that number.' She looked at me. 'And you're not to hover. It'll put me off my stroke. Go out the back. Get some books out of those new boxes or something.'

'But Mum ...'

'Off you go,' she ordered. When she used that tone of voice, I knew it was no good arguing. Grumbling to myself, I sloped off to the backroom as slowly as I could. I had just reached it when I heard Mum say, in French, 'Is that Monsieur Boron?'

I can understand French pretty well, though I don't speak it well, because I'm sort of ashamed of my Aussie accent. I strained my ears.

There was a little silence as the person on the other end of the line spoke, then Mum said, 'Yes. I am Anne Griffon. Please tell me what this is about.'

Another silence, longer this time. Then Mum said, 'What? Oh, my God.'

I abandoned all pretence of going to the backroom, and rushed back to the desk. Mum had gone quite pale. She saw me but made no comment. Instead, she said, into the receiver, 'How dreadful. I am so sorry. When?'

Another silence. She looked at me. Her eyes were full of horror. I cried, 'Mum, what's happened? What's the matter?'

She made a hushing motion at me. She said, into the receiver, 'But Monsieur Boron, I don't understand.'

Another silence. I tried to hear what Nicolas Boron was saying, but couldn't. As she listened, the pallor left Mum's face, to be replaced by a flush starting up her neck, into her face, even to the tips of her ears. She said, faintly, 'Are you sure?'

She listened again. 'I am overwhelmed, Monsieur Boron, quite overwhelmed. I do not know what to say.'

He said something else. She cried, 'What? That soon?'

She motioned for me to give her a pen. She wrote down a number and an email address. She said, 'Very well. I'll let you know as soon as we can. Goodbye, Monsieur Boron. Thank you. I will expect the fax with the details then. And yes. I will be in touch again soon. Thank you. Goodbye.'

She put the phone down. I almost yelled, 'What's going on, Mum?'

She took a deep breath. Her eyes were very bright, with unshed tears. Her hand trembled. She said, flatly, 'Poor Raymond Dulac is dead. Murdered.'

I stared at her. My legs felt weak so I had to sit down. 'Murdered!'

'Came home unexpectedly and surprised a burglar, they think. Happened two days ago.'

'Oh my God. Oh, the poor, poor man.' I could feel the tears starting in my own eyes. It was such a shock. I could hardly believe it. I'd never met Raymond Dulac in person, just seen his letters and cards. His orders always came in the form of letters written in an elegant ink script on pale blue paper. In his Christmas cards to me, he always included a little poem, in English, suited to the picture on the front. They were always clever and funny. He seemed like such a nice man. So kind. Generous. Who on earth would ever want to hurt him, let alone kill him? It didn't seem real.

On the back of his books, his author photo showed a strong, hard sort of face with a pair of striking blue eyes under thick grey hair. He was probably about seventy but he must have been good-looking as a young man. My God, it was horrible. The poor man. I would really like to have met him, one day. But now I never would. Never. I swallowed. I said, 'Have they – do they know who killed him?'

'No. They have no idea. It's early days yet.' She ran a hand through her hair, and said, jerkily, 'But that... that's not really why Monsieur Boron rang. You see, Monsieur Dulac had made a will. And in that will, he left his entire library to me.'

I couldn't believe my ears. 'He left you his
library?'

'Yes. As you can imagine, he has, or rather ... he
had
a huge collection of books. Monsieur Boron said some of them were very old and very valuable. He said that Monsieur Dulac felt I would be the best person to inherit them, as his nephew, who is his only close kin and who inherits the rest of the estate, is not interested in books at all. But if I wanted them, I had to go to France, to his place at Bellerive, within a week of his death. That was the condition. If I didn't agree to come within that time, the books would be auctioned off for charity, and I would lose them.'

'Oh, my God, Mum! How freaky!'

'I don't know what to do.'

'You've got to go, Mum,' I said, positively. 'You know you want to. And it's what poor Mr Dulac wanted, too. You can't let him down.'

She looked at me and gave me a faint, watery smile. 'You're right, Fleur. But it's such a shock. I'm finding it hard to take in. I don't know how I'll cope, going over there and sorting out so many books after a thing like that, and then there's the shop to consider, and ...'

'I'm coming with you, Mum,' I said, even more positively. 'I'll help you sort things out. And you know the shop's not busy at this time of the year, so it'll be fine. You can just close it for two weeks and no-one will notice except for Dr Troy, and he can go to the library or the café instead for a while. I'm on school holidays so it doesn't matter, does it?'

She smiled more broadly now. 'My darling bossy girl, you think of everything, don't you?' Then she frowned. 'But it's July. Plane fares are expensive ...'

'Come on, Mum! We can afford it. And you know you want to. I bet he had some absolutely fantastic books!'

'Yes. I'm sure he did. He had very good taste.' Her eyes filled with tears. 'Poor Raymond. I really felt like I got to know him a bit over these years. He was a good man.'

'Yes,' I said, soberly. 'He was.'

'And a very good writer, highly respected. His books were very popular in France, you know.'

I hadn't read any of Raymond Dulac's books – my French isn't good enough to deal with complicated plots and weird fantasy names – but I knew Mum had read a few of them and quite enjoyed them. I said, 'So you see, it really is a compliment to you, Mum, that he chose to leave you his library. And it would be an insult to his memory not to accept. Come on, you've got to do it. Ring back that guy, straightaway.'

'Wait,' she said, and reached under the counter. I knew what was coming, and groaned.

'Oh, Mum, do you
have
to?'

'It doesn't hurt and usually helps,' she said firmly, taking out the Lady of the Lake cards and putting them on the counter. 'And it seems more than right, as Raymond sent these to me.' Yes, that gift of the French writer's had been a big hit with Mum. She'd even started a special section on 'the Mysteries of Tarot' in the shop, which was really popular with New Age type clients.

Me, I don't go much on tarot, as you might have gathered. People look for answers in it but nothing's straightforward. It's all symbols and stuff, and often the advice seems obscure and vague. You can read it any old way. But I know better than to argue anymore. And it's harmless. I guess. Everyone needs some kind of help in making decisions and working stuff out.

Mum shuffled and cut the cards. She closed her eyes. I knew she was thinking of her question: should she go to France? She opened her eyes, shuffled and cut the deck again and drew out three cards. She placed them in a horizontal row, face down. Then she turned the cards over. She'd drawn the Eight of Wands, the Ace of Pentacles, and the Chariot.

I could tell by her expression that she'd drawn a good lot. But to please her, because I knew she liked explaining all that stuff, I said, 'What's the verdict then?'

'Very good,' she said calmly, 'and very clear. The Eight of Wands shows I have a great opportunity coming; the Ace of Pentacles shows that a period of prosperity is at hand; and the Chariot shows that we will be swept away to travel far and that this is important for both of us.'

'Good on you, cards,' I said, blowing them a kiss. 'You've said just what we wanted you to. Isn't that amazing?'

'Don't be cynical, Fleur,' said my mother, half-sternly. 'The cards help to concentrate the mind. There's nothing wrong in that.'

'Sure,' I said. 'Whatever you like. I don't mind. Long as you've made up your mind we're going.'

'Oh yes,' said Mum, gathering and stacking the cards. 'We're going to go as soon as we can get our tickets. Blow the bank, I'm going to put it all on the card – credit not tarot,' she added, with a twinkle in her eye, 'so there's no need for any smart comments, Fleur Griffon, you hear?'

'Sure, Mum,' I said, mock-meekly. 'I promise you I'll never be smart again,' and then we both laughed. The sudden excitement of this unexpected trip to France was bubbling up in us. For a moment, we quite forgot the terrible event that had actually set all this in motion.