Stranger by the Lake (13 page)

I discovered my aunt in an enormous room with a low beamed ceiling and hard earthen floor. It was filled with piles of boxes and old, discarded furniture and huge old brassbound leather trunks. Aunt Agatha looked up when I came in, waving merrily. She perched on top of a trunk, her sandy hair disheveled, her cheeks streaked with dust. She wore a long black smock and, incongruously, several strands of gorgeous coral beads that gleamed in the lamplight. There was a pile of books on the trunk beside her, and they tumbled off as she got up to greet me.

“Well, it's about time!” she cried, giving me a robust hug. “We've found some most interesting things—not any important papers, alas, but something almost as good. Look!”

She picked up the books, handing them to me. “First editions of
Pickwick Papers
and
Dombey and Son
, hidden away in one of the trunks. Imagine! They're rather battered, of course, but then they've been well read by my husband's ancestors. Look, the original Seymour and Phiz illustrations! I must say I'm rather pleased.”

I examined the books, holding them reverently. Dickens was my favorite Victorian novelist, and it was thrilling to think that these worn, rather musty volumes had been published during his lifetime. Aunt Agatha rattled her coral beads, her long, plain face as enthusiastic as a child's. She put the books back on the trunk when I returned them.

“You never know what you'll turn up,” she said, brushing a speck of lint from the front of her floppy black smock. “This is such fun! Almost like a treasure hunt.”

“Are you down here alone?” I asked. “Mary said Craig was——”

“I'm over here,” he said, stepping into the lamplight with a large battered box. “This is the last one, Agatha. If they're not in here, we can check the basement off our list.”

He set the box down and threw his shoulders back, stretching his arms out and heaving a sigh. He wore tennis shoes, tight gray sweat pants, and a loosely fitting gray sweat shirt, sleeves pushed up over his forearms. It was a rugged outfit, quite a contrast to the one he had worn last night, yet he looked even more appealing. There was a smudge of dirt on his jaw, and his hair tumbled forward in rich brown profusion. He gave me a grin and nodded toward the box.

“Come down to help us search?” he inquired.

“Not exactly,” I said, turning back to Aunt Agatha. “I broke a heel off one of my shoes last night,” I explained, “my best pair. I want to take it into town and have it repaired. I wonder if I could borrow your car?”

“You want to go now? But it's almost time for lunch!”

“I just ate breakfast,” I admitted, somewhat sheepishly.

“Hump! Two cups of coffee, I presume.”

“Three, and a perfectly marvelous sweet roll. Does your old Bentley still run?”

“What do you mean, does it still run! It outruns any of these souped-up tin traps they make nowadays, I can tell you that. In perfect condition, it is, and——”

“I'd be glad to drive you in to Gordonville after lunch,” Craig said, interrupting. “I need to pick up a few items from the stationer's myself.” He lowered his heavy eyelids, one corner of his mouth curling up.

“That would be lovely,” Aunt Agatha agreed. “The two of you could go when I take my nap.”

I smiled rather stiffly. “I—I'd rather go now,” I said, “and alone. I thought I might do a little sightseeing——”

“In Gordonville! You must be out of your mind. There's nothing whatsoever to see besides the statue of——”

“Aunt Agatha,” I said firmly.

She shrugged her shoulders. “Very well. The keys to the Bentley are in that little bronze chest on the hall table. But, really, Susan—why, if I didn't know you better I'd think you were going to meet some
man
.”

“Perhaps she is,” Craig said.

“Perhaps I am,” I retorted.

Aunt Agatha looked thoroughly perplexed, and Craig looked suspicious. Legs wide apart, arms folded over his chest, he stood staring at me with a dark look, brows lowered. I had the curious feeling that he knew all about my meeting Charlie by the lake and the real purpose of my wanting to go into Gordonville. I felt sure that he would have tried to stop me had we been alone. He seemed about to say something very stern, restrained only by my aunt's presence. Curious, I thought, uncomfortable under his steady gaze. There was no way he could possibly know about Charlie, unless … no, of course he didn't know.

“I'll see you later, Aunt Agatha,” I said.

“Of course, dear. I hope you
enjoy
yourself.”

Mildred was standing in the hall when I came back up. She was wearing the same rumpled white uniform and shapeless brown sweater she had worn the day before, and she drew back a little when she saw me, as though she expected me to kick her. Poor dismal creature, I thought, smiling brightly and bidding her good morning. Mildred shook a bottle of pills and looked at her wristwatch. I took the car keys out of the bronze chest, picked up the shoes, and started to leave. Mildred crept up behind me, reaching out to touch my shoulder. I almost let out a bloodcurdling scream.

“My, you
do
move quietly, don't you?” I said, shaken.

“Miss Marlow,” she sniffled, speaking very low. “I wonder if—maybe I shouldn't ask this.” She glanced around the hall as though to detect a possible eavesdropper, her mournful brown eyes finally coming back to me. “I wonder if you—if you
heard
anything last night,” she finally said. “My room is right down the hall from yours, and——” She broke off, clasping her hands together. Her hands were surprisingly lovely.

“
Did
you?” she asked.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” I replied. The woman looked unusually nervous, and I saw no point in mentioning the footsteps I had imagined coming up the stairs outside my door.

“You—you're sure?” she asked.

“Did
you
hear something?”

“I thought so,” Mildred said, frowning. “Maybe—maybe it was just all that talk at the dinner table.”

“Or maybe you heard Earl,” I told her. “He came tromping down the hall in the middle of the night, scratching on my door. Perhaps that's what you heard.”

“The dog came to your room?”

I nodded, and Mildred looked vastly relieved. She pulled the old brown sweater closer around her and moved away, gliding silently down the hall in her heavy white shoes. It was very hard not to laugh at the pathetic creature. I smiled to myself and went on outside, pulling the dark golden oak door shut behind me.

The great portico was shady, the six marble columns casting long blue-gray shadows. I walked the length of it, pausing to examine the pink rose trees in their round black pots, and went on down the three short steps to the flagstone path leading to the small gray carriage house that had been converted into a garage. The sunlight was blinding after the dimness of the portico; silvery rays sparkled on the crushed-shell drive and gilded the dark green grass. The air was fresh and clear, a slight chill making it all the more invigorating.

“You!”

I was standing in front of the garage with my hand on the door handle when I heard the voice calling. At first I couldn't locate its source, but then I saw Althea leaning precariously out the window on the second floor of Dower House. She called again, waving at me. Dower House was some distance away, sitting under the boughs of a great oak tree beyond the gardens on this side of the main house. Althea leaned out even further, her shrieking red curls tossing in the breeze.

“Come here!” she cried. I could barely make out the words from this distance.

I gave an exasperated sigh and moved rapidly through the gardens. They were smaller, less extensive than the ones I had explored yesterday. There was a charming pond with cracked white marble fountain and beds of glorious yellow daffodils. Leaving the gardens, I followed the worn path leading to the house. When she saw that I was coming, Althea disappeared from the window. She was unbolting the door as I stepped onto the tiny porch.

“Hurry up!” she cried. “Come on in before someone sees you.”

She took my hand and pulled me inside and then slammed the door behind us, sliding the bolt back in place and fastening a chain lock as well. She nodded emphatically, pulling the doorknob to make sure the door was securely locked, then led the way into the living room, giving me no explanation for her curious conduct. I felt that, like Alice, I had stepped through the looking glass and entered a whole new world. The living room was littered with empty gin bottles and painting materials, canvases leaning against the wall, tables strewn with pots of paint and brushes and sketchbooks. There was an easel near the window, sunlight streaming in to reveal a half-finished portrait of my aunt. Althea saw me looking at it.

“Quite a mess, isn't it?” she said briskly.

“It—it's remarkable,” I replied, stepping closer to examine the canvas.

Aunt Agatha's plain face had been captured in exact detail, every line precise and, even more impressive, the personality shining clear. The zest, the wit, the warmth: all were there on the canvas. She was wearing a ruby velvet gown, and the texture of the cloth was glossy, nap gleaming darkly. I knew without question that I was looking at the work of a master.

“I used to have something,” Althea said impatiently. “My portraits used to hang in all the best galleries. That was—God, that was at least twenty years ago. Agatha insisted I paint her—I've spent three months on this thing, haven't had the guts to try and finish it——”

“You're incredibly gifted, Althea. I don't know when I've seen——”

“I still fool around a bit, in between binges. I don't have the touch anymore. But I didn't get you over here to talk about my painting.”

She marched over to one of the tables, poking around to find a bottle that still contained a little gin. She poured a glass half full and leaned back, downing the drink in one great gulp. Her cheeks were flushed, her gray-green eyes shining brightly. I couldn't tell if she was drunk or not, but there was an intensity about her quick, jerky movements. She was wearing floppy brown slippers and a loose, billowing orange robe printed with enormous brown and purple flowers, the garment old and tattered. She looked wildly improbable as she plunked her glass down and stood among the litter, a caricature, not real at all.

“What are you doing with those
shoes
?” she asked.

“I'm taking them into town. One of the heels is broken, and——”

“Spare me the details,” she said, waving a chubby hand. “I want to talk to you, Susan. Everyone thinks I'm a harmless old lush, muttering in my cups, and no one
listens
to me. Perhaps you'll be the exception.” She pursed her bright red mouth and frowned. “I certainly hope so,” she continued. “The others're hopeless.”

“What did you want to tell me?”

“Things are going on, dear.”

“Things?”

“
Suspicious
things.”

“I see,” I replied, humoring her.

“Ah, yes, you've got that look in your eyes, just like the others. She's a dotty old lush, you're tellin' yourself, she's mad. Well, I
see
things. You think I'm lying? I saw
you
last night, coming out of the woods with that handsome fool. No, no, don't blush. I don't
blame
you. I just wanted to prove that I'm not imaginin' things.”

“I walked down by the lake,” I said defensively. “I wanted to see the mausoleum. Craig came to find me——”

“Ta ta! Great good luck, what?” She clicked her tongue, giving me a bawdy wink.

“Nothing happened, I can assure you.”

“Really? You have my deepest sympathy, dear, but don't be discouraged. Perhaps he had a
headache
.”

“You're outrageous,” I said, smiling in spite of myself.

“That's right, I'm outrageous—that's why people don't pay any attention to what I say. I have this
image
.” She gave an exasperated sigh. “I suppose that's the price I have to pay for lovin' to nip!”

She stood with hands on hips, round and plump, red curls falling about her chubby face. She was absurd in her bizarre clothes, and she reeked of gin, but I found myself reevaluating Althea. There was a certain shrewdness in her eyes, a look of undeniable intelligence. The woman who had painted that portrait of my aunt had to have great powers of observation, and I was sure a lot of Althea's mannerisms were put-on, sheer camp. She was a lonely old woman who had found a way of getting attention, and she played it to the hilt.

“Would
you
care for a nip, dear?” she asked abruptly.

“I don't believe so.”

“Think I'll have another. Then we'll get down to business.”

She prowled around, examining empty bottles, opening drawers to peer inside, finally pulling open the doors of a small, lacquered chest to find a brand new bottle sitting inside. She gave a little cry of triumph, taking the bottle out as though it were a priceless treasure, and after pouring a brimming glassful she went over and plopped down on the shabby brown velvet sofa, first pushing aside a stack of old magazines.

“I've told Agatha about this prowler,” she began summarily. “She's convinced I imagined him. The others think I'm mad. So much for that. My bedroom upstairs commands a terrific view of the grounds. I can see the big house and the back lawns and the woods, even part of the lake. I have a pair of powerful binoculars.”

“And you've seen someone?”

“A man,” she said, “always at night, always lurking about in the shadows, moving surreptitiously—my, that's a fine word, isn't it? One night he was standing by the lake in a raincoat—there was bright moonlight, and I could see him through a clearing in the trees. Couldn't make out any details, of course but there was a stranger by the lake. He stood there for a while and then walked away, out of range.