Late at Night (5 page)

Andrea nodded. “Don’t ask me why. I didn’t ask for it.”

“You mean you really meant it, that bit about feeling ‘strange vibrations,’ feelings, whatever you said on the dock?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. Nothing definite. Just a kind of weird tingle.” »

Cynthia walked over to the window, looked down at the forest beyond. “Well, with all the weird things that have gone on here it isn’t surprising.”

Andrea sensed that Cyn was already losing interest; she often did. “Well, forget about my abilities,” she said, cocking her head, “and tell me all about your adventures in Hollywood.”

“Oh, Hollywood,” Cynthia said disdainfully, digging in her purse on the dresser for a cigarette. She found the pack, lit one. “Actually, I haven’t made it to Hollywood yet.
Days of Eden
is filmed in a studio in New York.” She frowned. That still sounded exciting to Andrea, but Cyn didn’t seem to impressed with her own career. “It’s a grind. I’ve been stuck on that soap for a year and a half waiting for the doors to open. I’m the ‘bad girl’ in the town of Eden, y’ know. The writer is this middle-aged hag who thinks kissing on the first date is sinful. I’m supposed to be such a disgusting character, but half the things I do on the show I’ve done in real life. And you wouldn’t believe the letters I get. I mean, those broads out there really think that show is for real.” She puffed furiously on the cigarette like an auditioning Tallulah Bankhead and continued. “They write to me: ‘Sarah Rose’—Sarah Rose McAvoy, that’s my character’s name—‘Sarah Rose, you are a disgusting jezebel, stealing that woman’s husband away. Sarah Rose, how dare you abort that baby, God will get you for that. Sarah Rose—’ ” She stopped in mid-sentence and threw her hands up in the air. “I get more letters than anybody else on the show, but they’re all
hate
mail. I mean, I’m scared to go out alone at night. I got this hot-shot publicist who guaranteed to turn me into a household name, and he’s got a good chance of doing it. He gets me booked on talk shows, gets me interviews in those supermarket scandal sheets—I’ve been linked to eight men, two women, and a horny German Shepherd —cameos on cop and comedy shows, but the
real
work never materializes. I mean, where are the movie deals, the offers to star in my own situation comedy? ’Morty,’ I said (Mortimer Stevens is my agent), ‘I’m sick of being a target for all these moronic, infuriated housewifes who think I steal men and kill babies.’
God!”

By this time Cynthia was down on the bed next to Andrea, still going a mile a minute.
Nothing’s changed,
Andrea thought, and it made her feel warm and needed inside.
I feel like I’m nineteen again.
Cynthia was sitting on the edge of her bed just like she used to do in school, pouring her heart out, totally self-involved, needing Andrea to talk to, to give her advice. There was something almost comforting about it. It was as if the years had just melted away, and they were kids again, still enacting the roles that had been assigned to them. Andrea was once again living vicariously through her more exciting friend.

Andrea realized she should never have worried about having to tell Cynthia about her dull life as a file clerk … a psychic file clerk perhaps, but still a file clerk.

As always, it was unlikely she’d get a word in edgewise, and as far as she was concerned that was just fine.

Now if only she could shake the feeling of foreboding that was surrounding her, almost as tangible and cold as wet, clammy skin, as if a corpse had crawled into the room and was holding onto her, its fetid breath whispering
danger, danger
in her ear.

Chapter 6

Upstairs in the “master” bedroom, Lynn Overman and John Everson had put away their belongings and were dressing for dinner. John stood in front of the dresser, examining himself in the larger mirror hanging on the wall behind it. Lynn sat on the bed beneath a white, frilly canopy putting on her stockings. Her legs were plump, she noted with dispassion. The things that had once upset her seemed meaningless now, now that she had someone to love her. John liked her legs, had said so, so they were good legs, nice to look at, in his eyes at least. Flaws and imperfections were no longer flaws and imperfections when the person you loved was oblivious to them. She lifted up the other leg, grabbed the second stocking in her hand. She heard voices from the next room, and they started her mind wandering in a different direction.

Looking over at her, John noticed the distant expression in her eyes. “What are you thinking about, dear?”

“Oh … nothing,” she lied. She had been thinking how ironic it was: a young woman and an old
—older—
man in
this
room, and an old woman and a young—
younger—
man in the next. She wondered if Aunt Gloria were as happy with her young man as
she
was with her old one. John’s age had been a deterrent at first, there was no denying that, but he
had
come along at just the point when she needed him.

At times she wondered if that was why she loved him: his timing. She dismissed those thoughts as being ultimately irrelevant. He was here and she was here, and that was all that mattered. Finished with her stockings, she stood up and said, “I wonder what kind of weekend this is going to be.”

“I was wondering the same thing myself,” John said, fixing his tie. He walked to the closet to get his suitjacket. “I don’t anticipate any problems, do you?”

“No, I guess not. It’s just that this place-well, it’s all right in the daytime, but I’m not especially looking forward to the dark.”

Everson laughed. “Are you and Andrea planning to hold any séances?”

“I’d be too frightened,” Lynn replied. “You never know what we might uncover.”

“Well, you’ve got a lot to choose from. Pirates, maniacs, drowned sailors … you name it. You could have yourselves quite a picnic.”

“I think I’ll forego that pleasure, thank you.” She stood up and began searching for a suitable piece of jewelry in the dresser. John now sat on the opposite side of the bed from where she’d been, and was bending down to pick up his shoes. He groaned a bit for effect as he squeezed one foot into the first shoe; a tight fit. He was such a dignified, staid-looking man that any attempt on his part to be comical or silly still startled Lynn.

His black hair was graying becomingly; it was cut short, but attractively styled. He had a broad, squarish face with a wide mouth, deep blue eyes, and a full lower lip that gave him a continuously determined look. She had always thought that he would look good with a mustache, but he resisted the idea. He was of medium height, slender and solid. At times he would puff himself up as if trying to summon some extra toughness or courage or virility, and it was at those moments when he seemed the most vulnerable and when Lynn loved him the most.

“I wonder what your employees think about their quarters,” Lynn asked. “Do you think Margaret will be able to cook up some of her wondrous dishes in that kitchen?”

“I don’t doubt it in the least,” he said. “Margaret is at her best during moments of adversity.”

Almost instinctively, Lynn went over to Everson’s side and embraced him. The guests could all wait. She would not let go.

As they fell down onto the bed locked together, Lynn’s foot overturned a blue bag that she had overlooked when unpacking. “Just a second,” she said, leaning over to collect the bag’s spilled contents. Noticing one particular item, she turned pale, and her smiling expression rapidly faded.

They made love, but her mind wasn’t on it.

Chapter 7

Downstairs in the storage room, Ernest Thesinger sat down on the cot they’d installed for him and took a good look around. The walls were gray brick, the ceiling low. He hoped it wouldn’t bring out his latent claustrophobia. They had put a battered old desk in one corner, a chair behind the desk, another more comfortable reading chair next to the bed. Everson had even supplied a typewriter, but Ernie had brought his own. There was one light in the ceiling and one of those floor lamps at the end of the cot where the pillow was. He had already unpacked; the typewriter, a nice, reliable, battered manual, was on the desk, along with the paper, pens, erasers, and other tools of his trade. He would have to use a small bathroom just outside the kitchen, so he had put his toiletries in there, and hung up some pants and things in the foyer closet. He left his shirts and underclothes in his suitcase, which he stored underneath the cot.

Lammerty Island,
Ernest thought,
here I am.
He was sure that he could work up a viable piece about the place and its fascinating history. It was an interesting spot geographically, too, with picturesque flora and fauna and striking scenery. He had brought along his camera and plenty of film. He could approach the story from any number of angles; sell different pieces on the same basic subject to several magazines. Still, one had to be careful with that. As long as he sold to magazines that had different readerships it would be all right. Perhaps an article on the island’s occult speculation for one of the more esoteric journals. A photospread with a solid historical overview—no ghosts, goblins, or things that go bump in the night, but fact-based notes on real people and their place in the country’s scheme of things—for
National Geographic.
He could also incorporate some of the shots and data into another proposed piece on wildlife along the New England coastline and its islands. Yes, there were many possibilities.

The company seemed interesting, too. He didn’t know his cousin John well; the man could be a little distant, offputting. Was that what money did to people or was it all in Ernie’s mind? Yet, Everson seemed reasonably pleasant today, more so than before. The hostess, the new owner of Lammerty Island, Ms. Overman, was attractive and personable, though there was something strange, some mysterious hidden quality, about her that Ernie had yet to put his finger on. Or was that his writer’s imagination?

Cynthia was funny and sexy, if too self-centered for Ernie to appreciate anything other than her considerable sex appeal. The other young lady, Andrea Peters, was moody and bordered on the slightly wacky, with her psychic protestations. Most of the occult aficionados Ernie had met were terribly phony and boring individuals. Andrea, however, had a fresh loveliness about her, a certain charm underneath the cool exterior, that might make it a real pleasure for him to find out just how genuine she might be.

He didn’t quite know what to make of Gloria Bordette and her handsome, young (very young: what was he, twenty-five?) lover, but they were real characters, all right. She seemed likable enough, but he had an instinctive distrust of gossip writers, as if they were perverters of an art. Or was he just being narrow-minded? Jerry had that certain sullen arrogance of youth and good looks, but Ernie sensed an underlying shyness that made him seem stand-offish. He would have to reserve judgment on both of them.

Betty was sweet in that sad way of homely girls, and he found himself drawn to her, though not in a sexual or romantic fashion. She was really too quiet for him to have formed much of an opinion of her. The concert pianist Suffron was a bit—his mother would have said “snotty,” his father “highfalutin”—but there was an amusing glint in his eye, at the corner of his lips, as if to say, “Don’t worry, my snob act is just a put-on. Clever, isn’t it?” It took the sting out of his words and made you respond to him in a positive manner.

Yes, a motley crew,
Ernie thought. Too bad he only wrote non-fiction. He might have …

Suddenly there was a commotion, a loud hue and cry, from out in the living room. Someone was yelling, carrying on. It sounded like one of the housekeepers. Ernie got up to investigate.

He walked out of his bedroom and down the short, narrow hallway which led to the rest of the first floor. When he walked into the living room he was greeted by a most unexpected vision.

Emily Seaver stood in the middle of the living room, completely naked. And she was screaming at the top of her lungs.

Chapter 8

“What was all that screaming about?”

It was the number-one topic during dinner.

Although the dining room was fairly large, the table was a bit cramped for eight people. Margaret had used a pretty white tablecloth with a flowery design as well as good china. Crystal water goblets and wine glasses were next to the plates, and fine silverware was wrapped up in clean linen napkins. Nothing but the best would do for John Everson and company. As they sat poking through a spinach salad with strips of hardboiled egg and bacon, the island’s guests pumped one another for information on the housekeeper’s astonishing behavior.

“She was naked, you say? Stark naked?” There was a wild-eyed expression on Anton’s homely face.

“Sssshhh,” Cynthia whispered. “She might hear you.”

“It’s all right,” Andrea assured her. “They put the poor girl to bed. Apparently she’s still quite upset.”

“Upset over what?” Anton wanted to know. “One doesn’t stand in the middle of a living room stark naked screaming for no reason at all.”

Gloria looked up from her salad and wiped her lips daintily with her napkin. “Naked, did you say? My, this excursion
is
getting off to a lively start.” Jerry sat next to Gloria and she patted her lover’s hand. “And
you
thought this would be a dull weekend.” Jerry glared at her, his face reddening.

“Well, tell us already,” Cynthia hissed. “What was the housekeeper screaming about?” She stared directly at Ernie. “You were
there,
weren’t you?”

Ernest put down his water glass, swallowed, and paused for effect. Except for those of their hosts, all eyes were upon him. Lynn and Everson seemed to be mentally elsewhere. “I—I haven’t the slightest idea,” he said finally to a chorus of exasperated groans.

“Margaret suggested it was some sort of fit,” Betty said selfconsciously, fiddling with the top button of her frilly silk blouse. She obviously hated to call attention to herself, especially in large groups. Ernest remembered that she had been the first one down the stairs after he’d walked into the living room to see Emily’s amazing performance. “After I came down,” Betty explained, “Mrs. Plushing and the other housekeeper—Joanne, the French girl—and one of the men came out into the living room and tried to calm Emily down. She
was
naked, and screaming something awful. She kept rubbing her arms and chest as if there were something smeared on them, but I didn’t see anything at all.
Nothing.”
She shook her head for emphasis. “The men—Mr. Thesinger, and I think it was Hans—stayed in the living room while Mrs. Plushing and Joanne and I tried to get Emily dressed and into her room. She kept saying something, ‘I saw blood. I was bleeding. Blood all over me.’ Something like that.”