Authors: Lillian Stewart Carl
The phone was ringing downstairs. Bundling the photo and the letter into the diary and the diary into its box, Rebecca hurried down to the kitchen.
It was Warren. “Here’s the lab report on your fire. Just greasy rags and scrap paper. No gasoline or other flammables. And no fingerprints.”
“Someone was either very clever,” Rebecca told him, “or very lucky.”
“Judging by those singed curtains, it’s you and Dr Campbell who are the lucky ones. I doubt if the perpetrator meant more than to frighten you, but a fire can easily get out of control.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Call me immediately if you think something else is going on,” Warren concluded, and Rebecca assured him she would. Not that it would necessarily do any good, she added to herself as she hung up.
Rebecca plopped down at the table and absently crunched a piece of Michael’s dried toast. Her headache, if not dissipating, was at least less insistent than her rumbling train of thought.
No fingerprints. Damn. Warren must have Steve’s and Heather’s prints on file. Did he have Dorothy’s? Hard to believe she would deliberately damage the house. Easier to believe Steve would be reckless— Heather had been angry with him about something. And yet Dorothy could have the stronger motivation. And there was Phil, too hangdog honest to be genuine.
On cue, Phil Pruitt’s voice sounded from the entry counterpointed by Steve’s whine. They were haggling over whether transplanting a rosebush or repairing a tread in the back stairs was first on the agenda. Both sets of footsteps went upstairs.
Darnley sauntered in the door and made for the pantry, turning his skeptical gaze on Rebecca. “All right then,” she said. She stood up, brushed the crumbs off her hands, and picked up the phone. It took her a moment to cajole Brian into fetching his mother, but soon Jan said brightly, “Sorenson’s fun house— nervous breakdowns our specialty.”
“Then I’ve come to the right place,” Rebecca told her.
“Hey, are you all right? Margie Garst said you had a fire out there.”
“Someone decided to get funny with the kitchen trash can, that’s all. No big deal.” Sure, Rebecca said to herself.
Jan wasn’t convinced either. “Why don’t you come and stay with me? Michael, too, if he’d like.”
“Run away? A fine thrawn lass like myself?”
“Say what?”
Rebecca grimaced at the flotsam her memory would spit out. “Never mind. I called to ask if you know what Dorothy’s maiden name is?”
“I assume there’s some reason you don’t just ask her. I mean, I’m a trusting soul. I trust you’re going to explain all this to me someday.”
“If I ever find any explanation I’d be glad to. Now, what was Dorothy’s maiden name?”
“Gosh,” said Jan. “Something like, like— Barton?”
Rebecca twisted the phone cord. “How about Brown?”
“I don’t know. She was born in Columbus, I remember Margie telling me that. I think they’re all gone; Chuck said something about never having grandparents on that side.”
“Good as far as it goes. Do you know anything else about her?”
“Well, Margie was griping about how absentminded Dorothy’s getting— she promised one of the kids a toy and then didn’t bring it when she came, and the poor little tyke was beside himself. Early senility?”
“Maybe she’s been under a lot of pressure lately.” Darnley jumped onto a chair and Rebecca stroked him. He looked up, amber eyes inscrutable.
“Maybe you’d like this one,” said Jan, with the air of a salesperson offering different pairs of shoes. “Margie and I were talking about the Tuchman girl— married on Monday, divorced on Wednesday, hadn’t even written her thank-you notes— and Margie says Dorothy went through a quickie marriage to a boy in Columbus back in her flaming youth days, before Chuck Garst.”
“Not too much of a scandal even then, I guess. But right now I’m more interested in her parents. Can you ask Margie what her maiden name is?”
“Sure. It may not be Barton, it may be… ”
Darnley leaped down and fled into the pantry. Rebecca spun around and saw the figure standing in the kitchen door. Her mind fell into her stomach with a crash that rattled her teeth. She gasped, “Jesus H. Christ!”
“No,” mused Jan, “that’s not it… . “Her brain caught up with her mouth. “Rebecca, what is it?”
“Ray just walked in the door.”
Ray stood smiling at her, glasses gleaming in anticipation. The blond wave across his forehead was still marked by the teeth of a comb. He wore a checked shirt, the pocket stained by ink, and his favorite corduroy jacket with the patches on the elbows. He was trying valiantly to hold in his stomach.
“Good grief,” said Jan. “You want me to call the exterminators?”
“I’ll call you back.” Rebecca hung up the phone and forced a breath into lungs that seemed to have petrified.
“Kitten!” Ray exclaimed. He set down his suitcase and came toward her, arms outstretched, face bifurcated by a grin. “I’ve missed you!”
He had her trapped where the cabinet met the wall. Paralyzed, she let herself be swept into his embrace. He smelled of pipe tobacco and Old Spice. She’d forgotten that; her mind had been filed through like the bars on a jail cell. He kissed one corner of her mouth and patted the back pocket of her jeans. “Getting a little hefty in the starboard beam, huh?”
“I’m not a coed any more,” Rebecca returned. She pointedly glanced up and down Ray’s slightly beefy body, broad shoulders that kept on going right down to his knees. “You haven’t lost any weight yourself.”
“I’ve had to live on fast food and TV dinners. Your cooking is so much better than mine.”
She realized she was clinging to his lapels, more to push him away than to draw him near. She released them and struggled out of the corner into which he’d backed her. “Ray, where on earth did you come from?”
“I started driving yesterday and spent the night in Indianapolis. It’s a long way out here, you know.”
They’d had too many conversations just like this, not quite in the same language. “I mean, why are you here?”
“You asked me to come, Kitten,” he explained patiently. “The message you left with Nancy in the departmental office— send me a pretty nightie and we’ll spend Thanksgiving together giving thanks.” He had the decency to try and suppress his smirk. “That got around the department pretty fast, let me tell you. Everyone was teasing me.”
Rebecca gaped at him. She’d thought that headache was getting better. It had merely turned a corner, gathered steam, and come back to hit her again.
“I had to get Gene to take my classes, and you know how he always expects a bottle or two of wine in return. But I figured a reunion with you was worth it.”
The negligee. A reunion. Oh God let me wake up this is a bad dream!
Ray remained substantial. Rebecca forced another breath and said, “I didn’t leave a message for you. I would’ve called you at home with something that personal. It was the same person who sent you those postcards. It had to have been. They called the department because they knew you’d recognize my voice.” A woman, she thought. It was a woman.
“Well I didn’t know. I never can figure you out. I thought you wanted to make up, maybe you’d been reading
The Total Woman
or something.” He pulled her close to his chest. Once she’d lived to cuddle against the breadth of his chest. It had been so safe, so comforting. Now it was like hugging a couch-sized marshmallow. “I’ve been worried about you, Kitten, so far from home and among all these strange people.”
Now she was going to have to hurt him again. Damn and double damn whoever was harassing her, making innocent Ray his— her— victim too. But no and no again, she wasn’t going to let some nut drive her away.
He bent toward her. She dodged, steaming his glasses. “Ray, listen to me. I didn’t call Nancy and ask you to come. I don’t know a thing about it. It was the prankster. I’m sorry— it’s not fair, none of it.”
His glasses cleared. Behind them his gray eyes flickered, understanding, not wanting to understand. She looked around for some alley down which she could duck, but no, hiding wouldn’t help.
A tattoo of footsteps and Michael bounded into the doorway, held out an ancient leather-bound book, and said, “Rebecca, look at this!”
She shook off Ray’s grasp. Ah, hell— Michael had been ready to resume normal diplomatic relations. But now his eyes were slightly crossed, his brows arched, as if someone had just hit his forehead with a hammer. His mouth was tucked in at the corner, with surprise, with humor— she couldn’t tell.
Ray looked Michael up and down. He was broader, but Michael was taller. Rebecca croaked, “Dr. Kocurek, Dr. Campbell.”
“How do you do,” said Michael, his lips loosening into a fair approximation of a smile. He stepped forward, hand outstretched.
“Hello,” Ray said. Warily he shook Michael’s hand. “You’ve been living here with Rebecca?”
“Aye,” said Michael. His smile took on death’s head proportions, his eyes went glassy.
Ray glanced from Michael to Rebecca as though he were considering dusting her for fingerprints. Realization swept his face. No, no, no, Rebecca wanted to wail, that’s not it at all. The silence in the room was like quicksand.
“So you like Dr. Who?” Ray said gamely, gesturing toward Michael’s shirt.
“Aye.”
“Rebecca likes that, too. It’s pretty amusing. Pitiful production values, though. Might as well be filmed in the BBC coffee shop. The special effects in
Star Wars
are much better done… . “His voice trailed away. He looked down at the toes of his shoes.
Michael looked dubiously at Rebecca. He makes eye contact for the first time today, she thought, and it’s because of Ray. “Nice to meet you,” he muttered, and vanished out the door, clutching the book like a shield.
Rebecca’s jaw hurt. Oh, she was grinding her teeth.
“So,” Ray said, trying but not attaining a jovial tone. “That’s the Englishman. Seems nice enough. I’d always heard they didn’t talk much.”
“I wouldn’t let him hear you call him English.” She inhaled, keeping her anger from leaking into her voice. It wasn’t his fault. “Ray, I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing. It was a dirty trick.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he returned. “I had to come out this way anyway. I mean— well, I was saving the news for a surprise.”
“Oh?” For one dizzy moment she thought he was going to admit vandalizing the castle. But no, he hadn’t done that.
“I’ve been offered a position as the head of the philosophy department at Ohio Wesleyan. They liked my magazine articles. But a department head needs a wife— parties and stuff, you know. I’m a bachelor, I might not get the job… . “Even Ray realized that wasn’t coming out right. He sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” she managed to say calmly. “But it’s not just that I don’t want to marry you, I don’t want to marry anyone. I have work to do, research, teaching. I don’t think I’ll ever marry.” She sounded like Peter Pan asserting he’d never grow up.
“I see.” Ray picked up his suitcase.
“The negligee’s very pretty,” Rebecca said. “Would you like it back?”
“Keep it, Kitten.”
“Thank you.” She kissed his cheek. “You’ll get the job, you’ll see.”
“Good bye.” He gazed at her a long moment, as if imprinting her image on his retina. Then with an anemic smile he turned and walked out the door, back straight, gut tight, cloaked in dignity.
Rebecca followed, glancing around. No Michael. No Dorothy, no Phil, no Steve. They were probably ranged in the windows of the castle like Romans in the Colosseum, eating popcorn while innocents were savaged below.
Ray put the suitcase into his Escort. He climbed in, shut the door, and slapped the steering wheel with as much hurt and anger as Rebecca had ever seen in him. He drove away with a spatter of gravel and not one backward look.
He hadn’t deserved this. Rebecca swore and kicked at the door.
Car horns shrilled from the end of the driveway. She waited, but the sound was not followed by rending metal and crashing glass. Rebecca sagged against the cold stone coping of the door. I will never commit myself to a man again. It hurts too much. It hurts.
The sky arched blue, clear, and indifferent overhead. The house was silent. The draft through the door and into the entry was chill on the back of Rebecca’s neck.
Rebecca leaned against the stone coping of the door, her arms crossed tightly. She must be hallucinating. Up the driveway came Eric’s gray Volvo, gleaming like a silver dollar in the sunshine. It stopped. Eric got out. “Who was that idiot in the Escort?” he called. “He came blasting out of the driveway right in front of me, didn’t even stop.”
She straightened, rotated her shoulders, rubbed her temples, and said mockingly, “Oh hi, Rebecca, I got back early, how are you?”
Eric grinned. “Sorry.” He came across the gravel toward her. “I called in this morning and my secretary said you’d progressed beyond vandalism and theft to arson. I was pretty much finished anyway, so I caught an early flight back and came right out from the airport.”
He reached for her but she dodged. “That idiot in the car,” she told him, “was Ray.”
“Ray? Oh, Ray. Has he come to steal you back?”
“Not funny, Eric. Someone called his office and said that I wanted him to come for Thanksgiving.”
“That’s a low blow, not only hounding you here at Dun Iain but interfering with your love life.”
“I don’t have a love life,” Rebecca said, with such vehemence Eric took a cautious step back. “Sorry,” she told him in turn.
He opened his mouth, shut it, and presumably decided discretion was the better part of bewilderment. “Come on inside. Show me the damage.” The first thing he noticed was the dead bolt on the door. “That’s new.”
“Warren brought it out, and some smoke alarms, too.”
“Should’ve thought of a dead bolt myself. Of course that assumes that the intruder is coming from the outside.” Rebecca darted him an aggravated glance. “Okay,” he added hastily, “whatever Campbell’s scam is, he wouldn’t set himself on fire.”
Rebecca shook her head, smiling ruefully at her waspishness. Come on, get hold of yourself. None of this emotional inquisition is Eric’s fault.