1 Death Pays the Rose Rent (6 page)

“It’s not very nice of you to make fun of them like that, when it was your idea in the first place.”

“The old babes needed some excitement; I gave it to them. Look, there’s the judge. He’s president of the Lickin Creek Historical Society, Judge Parker. Judge Parker, I’d like you to meet my houseguest.”

I shook hands with the long-winded gentleman who had requested the artificial sweetener and just had time to mutter something polite before Richard steered me away.

“Hey! I was behaving,” I complained.

“Just making sure you don’t accidentally embarrass me in front of my friends with a fox pass,” he said.

I checked to make sure nobody was listening to me, then said ever so softly, “Listen, Richard. Let’s get something straight. I grew up in a world so formally polite that people still use calling cards—and know what it means when the corners are turned down.” I could tell from the blank look on Richard’s face that he didn’t. “A world that’s a hell of a lot bigger than your precious Lickin Creek—where courtesy is routine, and people know how to pronounce faux pas. Let me assure you that if I ever do something to embarrass you, it won’t be an accident; it will be intentionally done. Which is something you don’t need to worry about because my ingrained

good manners wouldn’t allow me to do that to you as long as I am your houseguest.”

His response to my scathing remarks was to completely ignore them. “Hey, Doc. Doc Jones. I want you to meet someone.”

The object of his attention flashed a cold, hard look at Richard. “Sorry. Busy.” And pointedly turned his back on us.

It was the first time I’d ever seen Richard look disconcerted. He seemed much relieved when we were approached by Rose Thorne.

“Stop monopolizing your guest, Richard. I want to hear about her book.”

“She’s all yours, Rose. But be careful, she bites.” He laughed a little to show it was a joke. What an asshole!

I began to tell her about the terrible history of the haunted town house in Greenwich Village, but soon found out what she really wanted was to talk to me about her house.

“It has always figured prominently in the history of our town,” she told me. “Did you know it was a stop on the Underground Railroad before the Civil War?”

“Fascinating,” I said, wondering if there was a book plot there. “I’d like to know more about it.”

She brightened. “I have an old book about the history of Lickin Creek I can lend you. Unfortunately, it was written before the Civil War, but there’s still a lot in it about the castle. Let’s go get it.”

She led me out of the sitting room, down the hall, and into a musty, paneled library. Ashes from a long-dead fire lay stinking in the massive stone fireplace. The tarnished brass fireplace tools had stood unused so long that cobwebs stretched between them.

While she searched the shelves, I glanced about. Some of the furniture, though covered with dust, was beautiful and obviously antique. The one piece that was not dusty was a burled walnut desk in the Louis XIV style. Arranged on the top were an old-fashioned crystal pen and ink set, a red leather appointment book, and a matching leather-bound blotter.

“You like my desk?” Rose asked, noticing where I was standing. “It was a gift from my father on my sixteenth birthday. It came all the way from France.”

“It’s exquisite,” I said enthusiastically.

“I found the book, but you’ll have to climb the ladder to get it down from the top shelf.”

I looked up at the top shelf, which had to be at least fifteen feet from the floor. I hate ladders, having just a touch of acrophobia, but I managed to get up and down without incident.

She grabbed the small book from my hand and blew off some of the dust. “Good,” she said as she flipped through the yellowed pages. The smell of mildew was overpowering. “Here’s a drawing of Silverthorne Castle. Wasn’t it beautiful?”

The detailed pen and ink drawing showed the castle before the porches were added. The gardens around it were elaborate and formal, and several small rowboats were floating on the pond.

“You read it this week,” she ordered. “Especially the parts about the castle. It has a very interesting

history. Maybe you’ll want to write about it someday.”

I promised her I would read the book right away and tucked it into my handbag, which was big enough to hold a dozen books of that size.

By nine-thirty, only a few of us were left in the sitting room drinking coffee. I recognized some of the people, including Judge Parker, who sat slouched in a leather wing chair by the fireplace, hands folded across his belly. He seemed to doze off every few minutes, then would wake up with a loud hiccup and rejoin the conversation without missing a beat.

Dr. Jones sat in a corner talking quietly with an Asian man I hadn’t met. Mrs. Seligman, of the doughnut committee, was still there with her husband, who had been introduced to me as a building contractor and developer. The priest had also stayed, probably to make sure nobody volunteered him to do anything else.

Michael made room for me next to him on a green velvet Empire-style sofa that desperately needed new springs. Alice-Ann joined us and sat on my left. In front of us was a coffee table about the size of a king-size bed, and on the other side of it, sitting unnecessarily close together on another green sofa, were Richard and a stunning blonde, who couldn’t have been a day over twenty. Alice-Ann’s face was flushed, and she fidgeted a lot with her cup as she tried not to look at them. It was trouble, not coffee, I smelled brewing in small-town paradise.

The conversation moved from Rose Rent to the high cost of real estate, a subject that seemed to be of as much interest here as it was in New York. Mr. Seligman was proudly describing his latest project, a strip shopping mall, which contained a pharmacy, a state liquor store, and a hardware store. “It cost plenty,” he bragged.

“I think it’s a disgrace, Hy,” Rose chided. “That was perfectly good farmland you went and covered with concrete. And it’s still half-empty.”

“It takes time to attract tenants, Rose. That’s why I built the subdivision outside town. As it attracts buyers, we’ll need more businesses.”

“So you can build more tacky houses, I suppose,” Rose countered. “Why did you have to make them all look alike?”

“They don’t. I used three different colors for the shutters. When are you people going to understand that there just aren’t enough cutesy Victorian houses to go around for an exploding population?”

“Exploding population! Who? Where are they coming from, Hy? What are they going to do when they get here?”

“They’re coming, Rose. From the cities. They want to bring their children up in safe, clean towns like Lickin Creek. Some of them are already here—they commute to work in places like Harrisburg and towns in Maryland. Someday we’ll have rapid transit, and you’ll have them living here and working in Washington. You have to face the fact that we’re almost in the twenty-first century.”

“And we won’t have anything to eat in that century if people like you keep using up the farmland.”

Mr. Seligman didn’t seem to mind her comments.

“Lots of people would call it progress, Rose. Your sister, for one. She doesn’t mind talking about what your property would be worth if it were subdivided and sold. Right, Sylvia?”

Rose covered her mouth with her hands in shock. “How could you even think of such a thing?” she stammered at her sister.

The silver-haired woman looked annoyed. “It is hardly relevant what I think anymore, is it?” she snapped, glaring at Rose.

To everyone’s astonishment, the redheaded woman burst into tears and ran from the room. Sylvia acted as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “Let’s change the subject. Talking about money bores me.”

“You could have fooled me,” Richard said rudely. “I thought it was one of your favorite subjects.” His words were slurred by drink.

“You’re a damned fool, Richard,” Sylvia said indignantly, then clamped her mouth tightly shut.

The blonde piped in: “Richard is not a fool, Mrs. Thorne. He’s a darn good Realtor, you know. Like, just ask anybody.” She placed her well-manicured hand possessively on Richard’s arm.

“Who is sheI whispered to Alice-Ann.

“Twanya Tweedy,” she answered disdainfully.

“Twanya? Did I hear right?”

“You heard right. I think it was supposed to be Tanya, but her parents couldn’t spell any better than she can. She’s Richard’s secretary.”

Mr. Seligman snorted derisively. “Is the word ethical in your limited vocabulary, Miss Tweedy? If it were, I doubt very much that you would refer to your boss as a ‘darn good Realtor/ “

Richard sat straight up. “Just what the hell is that supposed to mean, Seligman?”

“I’m talking about the screwing you gave Farmer Fenstermacher, when he came to you to list his property for sale. You convinced him it would be hard to sell, but you’d buy it from him as a ‘special’ favor. You knew damn well it was worth four times what you paid him.”

“Come off it, Hy,” Richard said. “Everyone here knows you wanted to buy that land from Fenstermacher yourself. You’re still angry because I beat you to it.”

“I was willing to pay him a fair price and you knew it, but you never took my offer to him.”

“Listen here, Seligman—” Richard started, but was interrupted by Sylvia.

“I’m tired of all this arguing. Doesn’t anyone want to talk about something interesting?”

Evidently not. Even the priest joined in. “Along those same lines, Richard. How about that vacant property next to the church school that I wanted for a parking lot? I was negotiating with the owner privately, until you stepped in and convinced him to ask twice as much for it as I could pay. Now there’s a convenience store there, where my kids hang out after school. I’ve even heard stories about drugs being sold there. I hope you enjoyed spending that commission, Richard.”

Judge Parker harrumphed and, seeing he had everyone’s attention, gave Richard the kind of look that

had probably struck terror in the heart of many a criminal. “Mexican oil,” was all he said.

I was astounded by Richard’s violent reaction to those two words. He leaped to his feet, his face contorted with rage. If Twanya hadn’t caught him by the back of his shirt, I think he would have struck the old judge.

CHAPTER 6 

I sat cross-legged on the grass, under moon-dappled trees, and watched Fred and Noel hunt some invisible prey through the marigolds. The night sky was dotted with flashes of icy green fire from thousands of fireflies; a scene from my childhood’s dream of fairyland.

But behind me the dream had become a nightmare. Through the door that opened from the porch to the kitchen, I could hear Richard and Alice-Ann continuing the argument that had started as soon as we left the castle.

Sylvia had put an end to the evening by announcing bluntly that it was time for everyone to go home. She pried Richard away from Twanya and walked with him to the front door. Alice-Ann and I trailed a little behind as we said our good-nights to the others.

I reached the door just in time to see Sylvia bend down to whisper something privately in Richard’s ear. It was obvious she had a hearing problem because her whisper was so loud I could clearly hear every word. “Be sure you get it here early. I want it set up before the others see it.”

“I don’t like the idea of the seance, Sylvia,” Richard said. “It’s too soon.”

“Just do what I say,” she commanded. “You’re in no position to argue with me.” With her final word, she shoved him out the door.

She saw me and realized I had overheard her. “We’re going to record the seance tomorrow,” she explained. “I understand it’s the scientific thing to do.”

“Of course. And thank you for having me over.”

“My pleasure, Victoria,” she said with a tight smile that belied her words.

During the walk back to the cottage, the angry words began. Once inside, Richard went directly to the bar setup in the living room, where he poured a tumbler full of Scotch and downed it in several gulps.

“You’ve had too much already,” Alice-Ann said, slamming her purse down on the hall stand.

“You ought to try drinking more, Alice-Ann. Maybe it would loosen you up. Make you fun for a change.”

“Then you wouldn’t have an excuse to find your ‘fun’ in Twanya’s bed, you bastard!”

“Leave her out of this!”

“I most certainly will not. How could you have asked her to come to Silverthorne tonight? How could you have humiliated me like that in front of all our friends?”

He shrugged infuriatingly. “If you hadn’t invited yourself and your pesty friend to the meeting, you wouldn’t have been there to be humiliated.”

Alice-Ann picked up a canning jar full of dried

beans that served as a lamp base and heaved it at him. It was pure dumb, drunken luck that saved him from having his skull smashed. He staggered and almost fell just as the jar flew past him. Beans exploded into every corner of the room when the jar hit the stone fireplace.

I backed tactfully out of the room, leaving them to fight in privacy. The baby-sitter passed me in the hall, smiled, and put her finger to her lips. Apparently she was no stranger to these scenes. By the time I reached the kitchen I heard her car kicking up gravel as it headed down the driveway.

I tucked a cat under each arm and carried them outside. I left the door between the kitchen and porch open on purpose, so I could hear what was going on, just in case the fight got too violent and Alice-Ann needed my help in subduing the beast. It wasn’t hard to hear them, since both participants had moved into the kitchen and were screaming at each other at top volume. Something crashed against the wall; it sounded like a dish breaking. Then another and another. Alice-Ann would have to shop for a new set tomorrow if this kept up. Finally, the front door slammed, and there was a blessed silence in the house.

I moved quickly around to the side of the house to see who had come out. It was Richard, furiously lashing a black suitcase onto the back of his motorcycle. When it seemed secure enough to suit him, he jammed his helmet on his head, climbed on the monster-machine, stomped down on the pedal, and took off with a roar down the hill. I wondered …did this happen so often he kept a prepacked suitcase ready for a quick departure?

When I saw a light come on upstairs, I picked up the cats and climbed the back steps into the house. The kitchen was a mess—a real shambles. Jagged shards of Blue Willow china littered the floor, and all the chairs were overturned. The round oak pedestal table had been shoved against the china cupboard, and both had fresh battle scars to serve as permanent reminders of the evening.

Since Richard was gone, I figured it was safe to bring the cats up to my room. I turned off the downstairs lights and climbed up through the painted clouds to the second floor.

Loud sobbing came from the master bedroom. At least I knew she was alive. I tapped on the door. After a few seconds, I heard her blow her nose. I opened the door and stuck my head in. “You all right?”

A nod. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her nose looked like one of those pale, misshapen strawberries you see in the supermarket in the early spring.

Fred immediately saw he was needed and jumped out of my arms onto her lap, where he curled up and allowed her to pat him. I could see her beginning to calm down as she stroked his soft orange and white fur. I’ve read that they use cats in nursing homes and mental institutions to reduce stress and lower blood pressure (wonder if my mother ever had a cat to pet?). Noel, more reserved, jumped up on the dresser and began to wash her face.

“I’m all right. Guess you can probably tell this wasn’t the first fight.”

She rubbed Fred’s chin. He closed his eyes and smiled. “But I’ve got things worked out in my head now. Remember what we used to say in school when we were dumped on by somebody? Don’t get mad … Go on to bed, Tori. Everything’s okay.” She sensed my reluctance to leave. “Really, it is. You’ll see. And take this silly beast out of here.” Fred was now on his back, with his front paws curled up under his chin, while Alice-Ann rubbed his belly. He looked as if he’d fallen in love.

“You’ll call if you need anything?” I scooped up Fred and draped Noel over one shoulder. She nodded, so I left, closing the door behind me.

The cats were delighted with the new bedroom. Noel selected a perch on the window ledge while Fred claimed his favorite spot at the foot of the bed. Later, I knew, he would stretch his full fifteen pounds over my legs causing me to wake up with a cramp.

I slipped into my favorite nightwear, a very old, very soft Wizard of Oz T-shirt, and got into bed. It didn’t take long to realize that sleep wasn’t going to come easily that night.

I turned on the lamp and looked around for something to read, but there wasn’t anything in the room. I made a mental note that if I was ever flush enough to afford a guest room, it would be kept well stocked with reading material. Even better would be a TV, VCR, and several classic movies. And a thermos of hot cocoa! That was such a good idea I decided I d suggest it to Alice-Ann in the morning.

Then I remembered the book that Rose Thorne had insisted I borrow. I got it out of my purse, which would probably reek of mildew forever. I flipped through the pages of The Illustrated History of Lickin Creek until I came to the drawing of Silverthorne Castle. It must have been something when the owners had been able to afford the many servants and gardeners this kind of place required.

Leafing through the first chapter, I found basically the same story Richard had told me about how his ancestor had accidentally founded the village of Lickin Creek. I skimmed several more chapters and found the background history of Rose Rent Day. This, too, was exactly as told to me by Richard. Almost word for word, as if he had read and memorized the description.

At last, I began to feel drowsy. I flipped through some more pages and found an appendix titled “Lickin Creek Caves.” Caves fascinate me. They always seem to be the setting for fabulous adventures, such as Journey to the Center of the Earth, which had also been a great movie, and Tom Sauryer, and a book I loved when I was a kid, Five Boys in a Cave. However, all my involvement with caves had been in books and movies. From what I knew, cave exploring usually involved climbing up and down some pretty spectacular heights, which was something I didn’t ever want to do.

I read the appendix. About two miles east of Lickin Creek is a very considerable cave, among the many which abound in this portion of the county. One entrance, at the base of a high ridge, which runs north and south, is only large enough for one person to walk in at once, by stooping a little. After

passing through the entrance, one reaches an apparent vestibule, about thirty feet in diameter and twenty feet high. A tunnel, opposite the entrance, extends downward about one hundred yards, to a underground lake of clear, calm water, the cavern roof overhead being ornamented with innumerable crystal formations—stalactites—which sparkle profusely when illuminated by torchlight. A number of passageways open from this cavern and connect to other caves in the area. Several entrances to this cave are found on the estate known as Silverthorne.

There is also a very remarkable series of underground passages under certain areas of the town of Lickin Creek. The entrances are through arches in the foundation walls of many houses. These arched entrances are used in summer as refrigerators, being made very cool by a constant current of air coming up from the caves. Oddly enough, these passages represent the streets of the town, leading in numerous directions, and often crossing each other at right angles, thus enabling visitors to start, at a given point; and proceed around to return to the place of starting.

My eyes were burning by the time I finished reading. Already in the back of my mind was the idea that I might hunt for one of the entrances that were supposed to exist here at Silverthorne. From the description, it didn’t sound as if much climbing would be required to explore it. Perhaps this would be the inspiration I needed for my new novel.

I fell asleep with the light on and dreamed of crystal stalactites sparkling in torchlight and a dark, mysterious underground lake.

Probably because I was in a strange bed, I slept fitfully, and that’s why the sound of the front door opening woke me up. I turned off my light and went to the window. Alice-Ann, in her nightgown and bathrobe, climbed into the same ancient Volkswagen she had driven in college. The engine coughed a couple of times before starting up, just as it always had. I watched the car until it disappeared around the bend.

Automatically, I glanced at my right wrist to see what time it was. Of course there was no watch there; I’d been meaning to get my Timex repaired for months.

Later, I woke up again, thinking I heard a motorcycle in the distance. And once more, when I heard a car drive up, followed by the dull thud of the front door shutting.

Finally, all was quiet, and just before I fell asleep for the last time, I remembered what it was Alice-Ann had been referring to: our slogan in college, “Don’t get mad—get even!”

Wednesday