Authors: KATHY
Jim didn't reply. His big scarred hands rested lightly on his knees. Andrea nudged him.
"We may as well go in."
He followed her. The steps and the porch floor creaked as they walked. The key stuck in the lock, and Andrea had to wrestle with it. The door opened with a howl of rusting hinges.
In the gray dimness the shapes of massive pieces of furniture loomed like behemoths waiting to attack. "Well, the place hasn't been robbed yet," Andrea said grimly. "But it's only a matter of time. I must get a dealer in here right away."
Antiques are hot these days. Maybe we can salvage something after all."
Still mumbling, she entered the room on the left of the hall. "Get some light in here. I wonder... Yes,
the electricity is on. Just as well, I guess, but you'd have thought that damned lawyer would turn off the utilities. They're eating up money every second."
The chandelier was a handsome cut-glass giant, but only a few of the bulbs remained, and a number of the dangling prisms were missing. The light only increased the impression of desolation. Dust lay thick on every surface, dulling the gleam of mahogany and rosewood. A strong smell of damp warred with another equally unpleasant odor Andrea could not immediately identify. Still, her spirits rose slightly as she ran her finger across the top of the carved mantel and felt the cool smoothness of marble. "Might be worth a few bucks," she said. "Jim, do you think...Jim. Where are you?"
He didn't reply. She went back into the center of the room; through the curved archway she saw him standing, a shadowy form, at the foot of the stairs.
"I'm here," he said finally. His voice was dreamy and abstracted, quite unlike his normal robust tones.
"What the hell are you doing? Get in here and help me. I want to take an inventory."
He turned his head quickly. "I thought you were upstairs. I thought you called me."
"I did call you. Stop wool-gathering, Jim. You saw me come in here."
"I know, but..." He shook his head in bewilderment. "I could have sworn somebody was upstairs. You didn't hear a voice, calling my name?"
"Cut it out," Andrea snapped. "I agree the place looks like the set for a horror movie, but I'm in no mood for corny jokes about ghosts."
"I wasn't. Jim shrugged. "Okay. What do you want me to do?"
Andrea handed him a notebook and pen. "Write
as I dictate. We'll start in here."
They had barely begun when a bang on the door announced the arrival of the lawyer. Andrea let him in. He greeted her with a smile, brushing the rain from his shock of thick white hair. "Sure is a miserable day," he said cheerfully.
Conversation about the weather had always struck Andrea as a complete waste of time. "You're late," she said.
"Sorry 'bout that. Well, what do you think? Fine old house, isn't it?"
"It's a catastrophe," Andrea said curtly. "Mr. Bushwaller, this is my brother, Jim."
"Just call me Fred." Bushwaller extended his hand. "You're a big one, aren't you? Basketball player?"
"Football," Jim said. "Glad to meet you, sir."
"What position?"
"Cornerback."
"That right? But you look like you'd be fast, too. Helps to have a defensive back tall enough to get to the ball before the receiver. If the 'skins had—"
Andrea broke in. She knew that once the Redskins entered the conversation, it might go on forever. "Mr. Bushwaller, I'm short on time. Could we get down to business?"
"Why, sure. Hoped I could take you folks to lunch later—we've got one of the best restaurants in the state right here in town, and—"
"Yes, I've heard of Peace and Plenty. But I don't have time today. I want to go through the house and check your inventory."
Bushwaller took off his damp raincoat, shook it out, and draped it carefully over the newel post. He had the craggy good-humored face of a farmer and
his pale-blue eyes were narrowed in amusement.
"Isn't any inventory," he said coolly. "I kept nagging Miss Bertha to have one made, but you know how she was. Had enough trouble getting her to sign that will five years back. She was over eighty, but she kept sayin' she had plenty of time..."
"I might have known," Andrea muttered.
"It's all yours, anyhow," the lawyer said, with unprofessional casualness. "Nobody is going to contest that will. Drew it up all right and proper, and I'll swear the old lady was of sound mind."
"Nobody in his right mind would want this," Andrea said in disgust.
"Guess that's right. Lots of stuff here, but none of it's worth much. What were you figuring on doing with it?"
"I'll sell anything I can."
The lawyer nodded. On the surface his manner did not change, but the glance with which he swept the room roused a sudden suspicion in Andrea, who was only too prone to that emotion in any case. She felt her assumption confirmed when Bushwaller went on casually, "I know a feller in town runs a secondhand shop. He'll give you a fair shake."
"Secondhand shop," Andrea repeated.
"Junk—you know." Bushwaller added in the same disinterested voice, "You want to clear the place out fast, before the local hoodlums realize nobody's living here. I could send Sam on up here when I get back to town, if you want."
"I don't intend to talk to any dealers until after I've taken the inventory."
Bushwaller met her hostile eyes, and the twinkle in his own grew stronger. He accepted defeat gracefully. "Can't help you with anything else then, I
reckon," he said.
"You can go through the house with me," Andrea said. Bushwaller glanced at his watch—an expensive-looking gold timepiece that, like his Brooks Brothers suit, jarred with the country-lawyer image he was trying to project. " 'Fraid I'm a little late this morning."
"It won't take any more time than a leisurely lunch at Peace and Plenty," Andrea said, in a tone that brooked no argument. She figured she was going to get a whopping bill from good old Fred anyway; he might contribute nothing of value, but it would give her some satisfaction to inconvenience him.
Once coerced, Bushwaller decided to relax and enjoy it. He was vague about the history of the house—"Reckon it's a hundred years old, give or take a few years"—but since Andrea was no more interested than he, she did not object. It was Jim who asked that question and others of the same nature; when Bushwaller was unable to answer them, he lapsed into an abstracted silence, and Andrea finally took the notebook from him.
The house was even bigger than it appeared from the front. Twin parlors, backed on one side by a library and on the other by a dark, high-ceilinged dining room, occupied most of the ground floor. From the dining room a butler's pantry and short passageway led to a kitchen so large, so gloomy, and so dirty, that Bushwaller was moved to malicious mirth. "Those sure were the good old days. Couldn't get a woman to work in this place today."
Andrea had to agree. The black coal stove stood aggressively in its place; it probably had not been used in years. Cousin Bertha's attendants had used
a small gas stove and an even smaller refrigerator, both of which were rusted and years out of date. Andrea stamped across the wooden floor, feeling the boards sag ominously, and threw open a door at the rear. A wide corridor lined with shelves led into a back wing containing three small empty rooms and a hideous bathroom, with a claw-footed tub, a washstand, and a leaky commode jammed into a space that might once have been a closet.
"Servants' quarters," said Bushwaller, now enjoying himself hugely. The more Andrea's expression hardened, the jollier he became. "Sure wish I lived back then. All the cheap darky help you wanted."
Another door led to a steep enclosed staircase, which they climbed to reach the second floor. It was only a few degrees less depressing than the first— just as crowded with furniture, just as dusty.
"This was Miss Bertha's room," Bushwaller said cheerfully, fumbling for the light switch. "She was bedridden, poor old soul... Looks like the bulb's burned out," he added, chuckling.
Andrea pushed past him, meaning to pull back the velvet draperies shrouding the windows. Bertha's bedroom was worth more than a cursory glance. The old lady had kept her most cherished possessions close at hand. Lying in the big four-poster bed, she had fumbled through her treasures, muttering in senile pleasure or distress as faded photographs and yellowed clippings reminded her of her vanished youth.
There was a stir and a rustle of bedclothes and a slow, heaving movement, as something dark rose from the center of the four-poster. Andrea fell back with a shriek.
Even Bushwaller was briefly disconcerted. He let out a stifled curse and then made a dash for the nearest window. The damp gray light fell full upon the form that stood bolt upright on the bed. It was the biggest cat Andrea had ever seen—coal black without a spot of white, and fully two feet long from its whiskers to its solid rump. Round golden eyes stared at her as if in challenge, and a tail as thick as a broom handle lashed back and forth.
"Ho, ho, ho." Bushwaller let out a rich, rotund Father Christmas laugh. "Durned if I hadn't forgotten about him. Gave me quite a start. Hope you aren't superstitious, Miss Torgesen."
"How did that—that animal get in here?" Andrea demanded.
The innocuous noun hardly suited the creature; he was the personification of the witch's cat of literature. "Shoo!" She advanced on the bed, waving her arms. "Get off there—scat!"
The cat yawned, displaying two rows of sharp teeth. Turning with ostentatious contempt, it began kneading the bedclothes. Ripping sounds accompanied this demonstration.
Bushwaller's mirth redoubled. "Better not tangle with old Satan, Miss Torgesen. So he's been here all the time! Annie May was asking about him—she was Miss Bertha's nurse, you know."
"How did he get in?" Andrea repeated.
"Probably has his private holes," Bushwaller said easily. "Now, Miss Torgesen, I wouldn't advise you to touch Satan; he's never been what you'd call a pet, he sort of comes and goes as he pleases."
"He'll come and go as I please," Andrea retorted. Now she knew the source of the peculiar smell in the parlor. Satan had used a corner of it as his private litter box on days when he chose not to brave rain or cold.
The cat settled down again. As Andrea advanced, he gave her a hard look over his massive plushy-black shoulder. To the surprise of everyone, including Andrea, he allowed her to scoop him up.
He weighed a good twenty pounds, all of it bone and muscle. The warm sleek weight filled her arms. But there was nothing cuddly about Satan; he simply sat there, a solid mass of indifference. Nor did he purr.
"Well, if that don't beat the devil," Bushwaller exclaimed. "Annie May got kind of attached to the old rascal—why, I don't know—but she never dared pick him up. He'd let Miss Bertha pet him now and then, but that was it. You must have a knack with animals, Miss Torgesen."
"I don't like animals," Andrea said shortly. "And I hate cats."
Satan looked up at her, a sneer curling his lip. Andrea glared back at him. "I hate cats," she repeated. "But I won't stand for wanton cruelty. I cannot believe you and—Annie May—simply abandoned this animal and left him to fend for himself."
Even as she spoke, the image struck her as absurd. Satan looked perfectly capable of fending for himself and, if necessary, of besting any number of antagonists. Jim started to laugh.
"I wish I had my camera. The expression on both your faces...Here, give him to me."
But when he put out his hand, a huge black paw smacked down on it. Jim backed away, sucking scratches. "Okay, okay. He likes you, Andy."
Andy dumped the cat unceremoniously onto the floor. Satan stalked out, tail erect, whiskers bristling,
with the heavy tread of a man.
"Told you he wasn't a pet," said Bushwaller. "I'd have taken care of him if I could have, Miss Torgesen," he added in an injured voice. "Haven't seen hide nor hair of him since Miss Bertha passed on. He don't look abused, does he? Annie May says he's a fine mouser, kept the house cleared out."
This aspect of the matter had not occurred to Andrea. It might come down to a choice between Satan piddling in the parlor and lounging on the bed, and battalions of mice gnawing furniture, fabric and wiring. She shrugged. "I guess he can stay till we find an alternative."
"Like to see you try to evict him," Bushwaller said. "Now that I think about it, there's always been black cats around Springers' Grove, far back as I can remember. Lots of them in town, too." He chuckled in a ribald manner and winked at Jim. "Satan gets around nights, I reckon."
"Probably black is a dominant color," Andrea said.
"Hub?"
"Let's get on with it."
They saw no more of Satan as the tour proceeded. There were five large bedrooms and two baths on the second floor, six smaller rooms on the third. They had been turned into storerooms; chairs without seats, tables without legs, and other decrepit objects filled them in motley array.
After Bushwaller had led them up to the attic, Andrea took one look at the clutter and shook her head. "Not today. I can't stand looking at any more junk."