Late at Night (6 page)

“ ‘There’s blood running down me. Why can’t you see it?’ ”

Margaret Proust Plushing stood in the kitchen doorway, a steaming dish of red cabbage in her hands. “That’s just what she said.” Margaret repeated deliberately: ” ‘There’s blood running down me, Mrs. Plushing. Why can’t you see it?’ ” Margaret came forward and put the dish down on one end of the table. “Poor deluded girl. She was having fits, hallucinations. That’s all I can make of it. Says she saw a strange face in the mirror when she came out of the shower, something, jumped out at her through the fog on the glass, and then suddenly all this blood was spurting out of her skin, just running down over her breasts and arms and stomach.”

“Bon appetit,” Anton said, raising his wine glass.

If Anton’s sarcastic remark had been meant to stop Mrs. Plushing, it did not have the desired effect. “She was out of her mind,” Margaret continued, her face grim and stony and concerned. “Didn’t know where to go, her right from her left. Just started screaming for help and running all over the place. It took three of us to get her settled, that’s for certain.”

Mr. Everson seemed to have at last been jogged out of his trance. “Will she be all right, Margaret?” he asked the cook. “Will Emily be all right? There won’t be a way off this island until Monday when the boat comes back.” Lynn looked up at the sound of his voice, startled, as if she’d been awakened from a deep sleep.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Margaret replied. “We put her to bed, gave her a sleeping pill.”

“What was all this about blood?” Lynn asked.

“There was none,” Margaret added firmly. “None whatsoever. She wasn’t bleeding at all. There were no injuries or marks anywhere on her body. We made sure of that. Now let me get you fine people the rest of your dinner.” She walked back into the kitchen, while John passed around the red cabbage.

Cynthia sat back in her chair and touched her lips. “What could have made her think she was bleeding?”

Gloria looked a little pale. “All this talk about blood at the dinner table,” she said. “Can’t we talk about something pleasant? Like wine.” She tapped her empty glass with a fingernail. “Or food?”

“Well, I guess all the stories are true,” Jerry began to say, idly scratching his arm and sighing. Gloria looked at him enthusiastically, glad that someone was finally changing the subject.

“I guess this place is haunted after all.”

“Oh, Jerry.
Really.
“ Gloria put her hand over her eyes.

“Well, the girl did say she saw something in the mirror,” Jerry argued. “A strange face or something. That sounds pretty spooky to me.”

Cynthia rubbed away the goosebumps on her arms. “And here I am hoping she was one of these religious whackos who develop—what do they call it?—stigmata, where they start to bleed like Jesus Christ. That might explain the blood she thought she saw. Usually it turns out that these religious fanatics who see things and have visions and talk to God are just repressed women who need a good—”

“I have an awful headache,” Lynn said, standing up suddenly. “I think I’m going to take a couple of aspirin and lie down for awhile.” She turned to John. “Tell Margaret to save me something for dinner. I’ll eat later.”

Her guests performed the obligatory motions, expression concern, and Lynn went up th® staircase to her room.

Everson emitted a heavy sigh and leaned forward on his elbows in a show of resignation. He offered no explanation for Lynn’s behavior. Muttering something about seeing what was holding up the rest of the dinner, he went into the kitchen.

“He and Lynn must have had an argument,” Cynthia said, unnecessarily, as that much was obvious to all of them.

“All that talk of blood and ghosts and faces in the mirror would give anyone a headache,” Gloria said, but the conversation had not affected her appetite. She scraped the last of the cabbage off her plate, and licked her lips. “Is this all we’re getting for dinner? Red cabbage? It was quite good, but I’m afraid I was expecting something a little more substantial.”

“I believe they’re have trouble in the kitchen,” Anton explained. And indeed, everyone could hear the raised voices of the lawyer and the cook coining from the adjacent chamber. Anton cocked his head—he was nearest the kitchen door—and tried to hear what they were saying. “Apparently,” he surmised, “the equipment in there is like something from the Dark Ages, and our poor Mrs. Plushing is having trouble with the roast.”

“Well, I hope John doesn’t take it out on the poor woman,” Gloria said. “It’s not her fault if this place was built around the turn of the century.”

“The 1860s actually,” Ernest smiled, thankful for the opportunity to add something to the conversation. He was by nature a quiet man, and easily overlooked unless he felt he had something to say. That would definitely be a problem with this flamboyant, prestigious crowd of actresses, concert pianists, and gossip columnists. “This was built for a family named Burrows in 1862,” he continued. “Originally all that stood was the first floor. It was servants quarters, nothing more. Burrows was a religious fanatic and something of a maverick. Not only would he not let his own servants sleep in the same house with him, he built their quarters at some distance from his mansion. Something about not wanting ‘inferiors’ living under the same roof. If an emergency arose late in the evening, one of his sons would have to run all the way to the servants’ house to rouse someone! Then in the 1920s the new owners, the Langdons, added two more floors, and built additions to the first floor, to make this a large guest house for visitors. Then when the main house—”

Jerry laughed. “You mean
this
isn’t the main house!”

“Oh no,” Ernie shook his head. “The main house was partially destroyed by a fire. It’s still standing, though, and from what I’ve heard is in good enough shape to be completely restored at some point. The fire occurred around 1931, and after that
this
house became the ‘main’ house. Lynn’s aunt bought the island in the fifties and stayed here in the summers every year until her death. I think John could confirm that.”

Ernie realized that Andrea was looking at him rather intently, so he paused for a moment, hoping to give her the chance to speak.

She did not disappoint him. “Wasn’t there another, earlier mansion—I mean a different one from the house that burned?”

Ernie sensed that Andrea already knew the answer to her question, but she was giving him the opportunity to impress the others with his knowledge, to have center stage for a change. He’d lost the limelight earlier as soon as the others had realized he really hadn’t known what had happened to Emily. “Yes, you’re right,” he said. “The original house was built in 1650 and was
completely
destroyed by a fire about a hundred years later. It seems that the people who had owned it were dispossessed and took revenge on the new owners—a minister and his wife—by burning their house down. While they were in it.”

Cynthia gulped. “Pleasant people.”

“Then the island came into the hands of Burrows, who later became the infamous mass murderer of Lammerty Island. He built a new mansion in a different spot. I suppose we can all traipse over and take a look at what’s left of it tomorrow.”

Ernie was about to continue with his history lesson, enjoying the luxury of being able to bask in everyone’s undivided attention, when the kitchen door swung open an an agitated-looking John Everson came wandering out. All eyes turned toward him. “I’m afraid, my friends, that the rest of dinner will be delayed while Mrs. Plushing masters the operation of our antediluvian stove. It seems Lynn’s aunt was an eccentric who liked the quaint old kitchen equipment and decided to leave it just the way it was.”

“I’m glad she wasn’t
too
eccentric,” Gloria chortled, “or we’d all wind up squatting in the woods.”

John smiled for the first time that evening. “No, luckily Mrs. Hornbee saw fit to install modern bathrooms, electric lights, and many other luxuries from our decadent society. Mrs. Plushing simply miscalculated the time it would take for her roast to cook. We might as well stay here and enjoy some more salad—perhaps have another drink some of us, hmmm—and in twenty minutes or so we can resume our dinner. Let me assure you that Mrs. Plushing’s cooking is well worth the wait.” Everson sat down with a flourish. His spirits seemed to have revived.

“Her red cabbage was certainly tasty,” Gloria said, “although I’m not quite sure why she brought it out if her pot roast wasn’t done.”

Cynthia had a ready answer. “She probably figured she’d better serve the meal in stages before we started eating one another!”

“This island ever have any cannibals?” Jerry asked Ernest in a stage whisper. “I don’t think so,” Ernie answered, smiling and shaking his head.

“Actually, Gloria,” Mr. Everson replied, “Margaret had assumed when she started bringing out the side dishes that her roast beef was done. She didn’t realize that on those old stoves it takes much longer to cook something than it would on a modern apparatus.”

Margaret came out at that moment, a harried expression on her face, a big bowl of extra salad in her hands. “Here, this should tide you over for awhile. I’m so sorry.” She looked at Mr. Everson. “Eric and Hans and Joanne are in the kitchen with their tongues hanging out.” Then to the others: “Joanne will be here in a moment with the rolls. I’ll bring in the wine. Eric will be out to make your drinks in a minute.” She bent down near Everson and whispered, “I told him he had better wash up and change first if he’s gonna come out here with you people.”

Everson stood and held up his hand. “Tell Eric to relax. He’s a chauffeur, not a bartender.”

“As long as he’s got nothing to do on this island, he might as well make himself useful.”

“Oh he will, don’t worry. In the meantime, I’ll make the drinks. Orders, please.”

Everson busied himself over at a table in the corner where glasses and assorted liquor bottles had been placed. Everyone was so hungry that the conversation automatically turned to food. Ernest sensed that no one was interested any more in hearing about the island’s history, so he sat back, nibbled his lettuce, and studied the others.

There was no doubt that for him the most intriguing personality was Andrea Peters. She was, like him, comparatively quiet, but not as painfully or awkwardly shy as Betty Sanders— that was something he did not like in a woman, or anyone else for that matter. Neither was Andrea the natural charismatic performer that Cynthia was, and for that he was also grateful. The soap-opera actress, while amusing and likable, was so intense and energetic, always “on camera,” that she made Ernie rather nervous. Anton’s droll delivery could become tiresome after awhile, and Ernie really had nothing in common with either Gloria or Jerry, and sensed the feeling was mutual. He hardly knew Lynn—and from her abrupt departure it was a certainty that he would not have the opportunity to get to know her better tonight. About his cousin John he knew all he ever needed or would want to know.

So if there were anyone whose attention he should court throughout this weekend, it was Andrea Peters. The psychic business he found a trifle distressing, but as long as she wasn’t a bore about it, he wouldn’t complain.

He was most impressed with Andrea’s subtle, natural quality. She was not exactly centerfold material, but there was an innocence about her, a feeling that she was not quite aware of how attractive she could be to certain men. Her looks were so pure and lovely and compelling that in the right light she was practically beautiful. Her hair was blond with an attractive glimmer and natural highlights, and fell down onto her shoulders in full, wavy tresses. She didn’t appear to be using much makeup, but it wasn’t always easy to tell. If she did wear any, she used it sparingly and with considerable skill. Her eyes seemed bright and large and brown and were probably touched up a bit—understandable, as they were her best features and she would want to emphasize them. Her nose was small, dainty. Her mouth was also small, but her lips turned up charmingly even when she sat in mild repose. She had a wonderful smile. Her teeth were a bit too large, but not unpleasantly so, and Ernie imagined that under the guidance of the right make up artist she could have modeled—though she wasn’t the usual bony, hollow-cheeked, half-starving type they seemed to go for. She was pretty. And he was interested. Now if only the feeling was mutual …

“Here we are!”

And Mrs. Plushing, her face beaming, came out with the roast—a big, delicious-looking hunk of tasty meat on a heavy blue platter. Soaking in its natural juices, the meat was rare and red and bloody. Ernie did not much care for meat, and hated rare meat most of all.

To him, it looked for all the world like a tiny human torso.

Chapter 9

An hour later they were sitting in the living room having after-dinner drinks and coffee. The dinner had been scrumptious and more than satisfying. Mrs. Plushing accepted compliments with an amusing mixture of pride and humility, then went to check on Emily, who was, she reported, “sleeping like a log.” She and the other servants ate their share of the supper at the kitchen table, then retired to their chambers or went for walks. “Stay close to the house,” Everson warned. “It’s dark outside and we don’t want anyone getting lost.”

Everson sat in the large, comfortable chair by the fireplace, a snifter of brandy in his hand, and urged Ernie to regale the others with morbid tales of the island’s grisly background. Ernie sat on the piano bench, holding a cup of tea in one hand and balancing a plate of cookies on his knee. Gloria, Jerry, and Anton sat on the sofa near the front window, sampling assorted liquers. Cynthia and Andrea were on opposite sides of the sofa, in small matching chairs with gray patterned upholstery and broad wooden legs. Betty Sanders sat alone on an ottoman next to a bookcase in the corner, sipping her black coffee and looking wide-eyed and lonely.

Ernie felt annoyed that Everson had put him on the spot; most of the people in the room knew all about the island’s history already, especially its bloodier moments. He recited some of the less familiar details, addressing his words to those who seemed most interested. Andrea looked as if she were trying to become absorbed in what he said, but she kept fidgeting, rubbing her eyes. She was either very tired, uncomfortable with the whole subject, or—God help him—getting “negative vibes.” Cynthia and Jerry were giving one another surreptitious glances. If Gloria were aware of their interest in one another, she was keeping it to herself. Her eyes never strayed from Ernie’s face for a second—it was as if there were nothing else on her mind than hearing each and every word of what he had to say. Betty also gave him her undivided attention, and he blessed her silently. It would have been so easy for her to drift off and stare elsewhere, letting the others carry the burden. Even Gloria might have only been paying attention to him to spare herself the humiliation of letting the others know that she was aware her lover was flirting with another, younger woman. Anton was polite enough to look up now and then and pretend he was listening, but it was clear that his mind was miles away.