Stranger by the Lake (2 page)

Charlie Grayson was behind his desk, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. The light from the desk lamp burnished his dark blond hair and cast soft shadows over his handsome young face. He looked up when he heard me coming down the stairs, and at first he didn't seem to recognize me. He looked bewildered, and then he must have realized that I was the same woman who had been so wet and bedraggled an hour ago.

“You said there was a restaurant,” I remarked pleasantly.

He nodded. “In back,” he said, pointing to the archway that led off the main foyer.

“Thank you, Charlie.”

“You're Susan Marlow?” he asked, glancing down at the register I had signed earlier.

“That's right.”

“Would you be the same Susan Marlow who writes all those mysteries?”

“Right again. Don't tell me you
read
them?”

“Of course not,” he said irritably, as though such a thing would be unthinkable. “I just—wondered. You, uh, you know a lot about mysteries, don't you? A lot about plots?”

“Not really,” I replied. “I have what the critics call a fertile imagination, whatever that means.”

Charlie looked up at me, his dark brown eyes intense. He seemed worried, and he seemed to be holding something back. It was almost as though there was something he desperately wanted to tell me but didn't quite dare to. Although he was only a couple of years my junior, he seemed painfully young and strangely vulnerable, a little boy plagued with some major problem. He stirred maternal instincts I hadn't even realized I had. I wanted to stroke his cheek and tell him everything was all right, he could confide in me.

“Still,” he said hesitantly, “it'd be hard to fool you, wouldn't it?”

“I shouldn't think so,” I said lightly. “What do you plan to do, pad my bill?”

He didn't deign to answer. He gave me a sullen look and turned away to examine some papers on the desk, quite plainly dismissing me. I stared at him, deeply puzzled, and then went on into the restaurant. Charlie Grayson had probably had a bad fall on his head as a child, I decided, or perhaps he was just mildly insane. In any event, I certainly didn't intend to let it bother me. I was on holiday and strongly resolved to let nothing interfere with my hard-earned days of lazy relaxation.

The restaurant was charming but, like my room, shabby and a bit worn at the edges. The walls were paneled in varnished golden oak, the ceiling had sturdy, soot-blackened beams, and the floor was covered with dark red linoleum. A fire burned lustily in the large rough-stone fireplace, flames reflecting in bright copper utensils that hung on the opposite wall behind the long counter. Baskets of ivy and pots of rubber tree plants added a vivid green touch. I sat down at one of the golden oak tables, ignoring the snug, intimate brown leather booths that ran along one wall.

The waiter was a thin teen-age boy with neatly combed black hair, his white jacket crisp, his manner extremely polite. He took my order and vanished into the kitchen through a swinging door behind the counter. It was still pouring down rain outside, and that probably explained the lack of customers. I was alone in the room, and I enjoyed the sense of seclusion. After the hubbub and uproar of London this morning and the rattling discomfort of the train during the day, it was nice to hear only the crackle of wood burning and the muted sound of rain. I was glad now that I hadn't gone immediately to Gordonwood. I would be relaxed and refreshed in the morning and in much better shape to meet my aunt.

After a delicious meal of hot roast beef, gravy, tiny new potatoes, and buttery green peas, I hesitated over ordering dessert. The waiter brought a tray of glorious little iced cakes and asked if I would like some with my coffee. The temptation was too strong: I told him to put two on my plate. I lingered over my coffee, reluctant to leave the pleasant room. When the waiter finally brought my bill, I paid it and left a generous tip, hoping he wouldn't be as offended as Charlie had been when I tried to tip him for lugging my bags up to the room.

It was nine thirty when I stepped back into the lobby. That was early for me. In fact, midnight was merely the shank of the evening as far as I was concerned. Ever since my first book had sold and I no longer had to be in an office bright and early in the morning, I had taken to staying up until all hours and then sleeping wonderfully late the next day. It wasn't really wicked indulgence. I did my writing at night, frequently working until two or three in the morning. It was quiet then, with no blaring noises to distract me. I had never been able to understand those people who leaped out of bed at the crack of dawn and then bustled about with frightening industry. The mere thought made me shudder.

Charlie wasn't behind his desk. The lobby was deserted and dim, the desk lamp and a light over the stairs offering the only illumination, dark shadows spreading over the walls. Restless and not quite ready to go back up to my room just yet, I decided to sit on the sofa for a while. It was in one corner, half hidden by rubber tree plants, and I could sit and watch the rain streaking down the front windows in slippery silver-gray patterns. I leaned back against the cushions, curling one leg under me and ignoring the smell of mothballs and worn velvet.

I don't know how long I had been sitting there when the front door was thrown open and the man came rushing in. A great gust of wind and rain blew in before he could slam it behind him. He stamped his feet and shook himself, water running in rivulets off his long black plastic raincoat. He was quite tall, with enormous shoulders, and I got an impression of strength and determination as he glanced around the lobby, obviously expecting someone to be waiting for him. A black hat slanting down over his forehead obscured most of his features, but I could see a strong jaw and a wide mouth. He scowled, the mouth turning down at the corners, then walked toward the staircase, emitting a curse under his breath.

He wasn't aware of my presence. I could tell that. The room was dimly lighted, and I was half hidden behind the rubber tree plants. He stood at the foot of the staircase, his back to me. In a moment there was a sound of footsteps and a woman came down, her high heels tapping lightly on the bare wooden stairs.

She was young and stunningly beautiful. That was two points against her to begin with. She was the kind of woman who makes other women turn into vicious cats, a lush brunette with dark blue eyes and sultry red mouth. The ebony hair was clipped stylishly short, and she had a fragile, petite body ideally designed for a man's arms. Her dress was an exquisitely simple leaf-green shift that left her arms and most of her legs bare. Needless to say, I hated her on sight.

“I see you finally got here,” she said petulantly.

“What the hell is the idea of this?” he asked in a harsh, heavy voice. “Have you any idea the risk we're taking? What if someone were to see us? What if someone were to miss you——”

“Don't fret, baby,” she said in honeyed tones. “This is my day off. And no one's going to see us. Who'd be out on a night like this? That's why I phoned you. I knew we could meet without any danger——”

“What about your friend?” he said, stressing the last word with sarcasm. “He owns this place. He's bound to——”

“Don't worry about Charlie,” she purred. “I can handle him.”

“He knows too much already——”

“Don't fret, baby. How often do I have to keep telling you that?”

“Listen, luv,” he said angrily, “I spent weeks planning this, and I don't intend for you to wreck everything with this damned cavalier attitude of yours. This isn't a lark, it's for real. It could mean——”

“I know what it could mean,” she retorted icily. “I also know that
I
am the one who's taking all the chances. You don't realize how hard it is! The constant deception——” She paused, frowning. “There've been some new developments. I had to see you. I have to tell you about them. Come on up to my room. We can't stand
here
all night.”

They went on upstairs, much to my disappointment. I felt cheated, as though I'd seen a brief preview of an absolutely fascinating movie and knew I'd never be able to see the whole film. I adored eavesdropping on strangers, justifying this admittedly impolite predilection by telling myself that, as a writer, I needed to find out all I could about my fellow beings. I had heard some absorbing conversations on buses, in restaurants and department stores, but none of them had been quite as intriguing as the one I had just listened to. It had a flavor of mystery, of romantic conspiracy. Wondering what the two of them were planning that required such secrecy, I gave full play to my writer's imagination.

The drama wasn't quite finished. I discovered that I hadn't been the only one who had been eavesdropping on the pair. A door near the desk had been open all this time. It was recessed and half obscured by shadows, and I presumed it led to an office. I was suddenly aware that a dark form was lurking there in the doorway, and then Charlie stepped out of the shadows. He was looking toward the staircase, his expression pained, and I knew at once that he had heard everything. His cheeks were ashen, his dark brown eyes filled with conflicting emotions.

He turned to the desk and saw me sitting on the sofa. I blushed furiously.

Charlie didn't say anything. He glared at me as I got up and strolled toward the stairs. I was horribly embarrassed, yet I managed to effect an air of casual unconcern. I could feel his eyes on my back as I went up the stairs, moving with deliberate slowness. By the time I reached my room I was beginning to see the humorous aspects of the situation, and I smiled wryly as I closed the door behind me and locked it.

The logs had burned down to a heap of smoldering orange-pink ashes, snapping pleasantly and sending up little showers of sparks. The room was delightfully warm and cozy as I undressed and slipped into a pair of ruffled pink cotton pajamas. I turned out the overhead light but left the bedside lamp glowing. It was much too early to think of sleep, but fortunately I had brought along a thick historical novel all about dashing cavaliers and buxom maids, my favorite kind of reading. Crawling between the crisp linen sheets and pulling the feathery soft covers around me, I opened the book and was soon lost to the world of flamboyant romance and deeds of bold bravado.

Three hours and two hundred pages later I was finally drowsy enough to put the book aside and turn out the lamp. The room was suddenly thick with velvety black darkness that gradually lightened as moonlight seeped in through the parted drapes. It was no longer raining, but rain dripped from the eaves with a soft splashing sound, and my traveling alarm clock ticked quietly on the bedside table. I had set it for eight, and it was after one now. Closing my eyes, I nestled under the covers and let the gentle noises lull me to sleep.

“She's in there,” the voice said. It was a dream voice, muffled and far away. “She's going to Gordonwood, I tell you! She overheard——” The voice drifted away, followed by the sound of footsteps moving down the hall outside my door.

I sat up in bed, abruptly awake, completely alert, with no lingering traces of drowsiness. The room was filled with silvery-gray light, long black shadows sliding along the walls, a dim pink-orange glow flickering in the fireplace. The luminous hands of the clock showed three in the morning. Something had awakened me with a sudden start, and whatever it was had been real, not a creation of my subconscious. My nerves were taut, and I was leaning forward, straining to hear.

There was a faint rattle, as though someone were turning the doorknob, then a few seconds of silence followed by a crisp, rustling sound like dry leaves. I had the acute sensation that someone was standing just outside the door, but there was no sound now. My heart pounding, I turned on the lamp. Dazzling yellow-white light flooded the room, banishing the shadows and bringing a sharp sense of reality. I got out of bed and threw open the door. The hallway was empty, although I had the strange feeling that someone had just left it. I shook my head, frowning. It must have been my imagination after all, I decided, and it was only after I had closed the door and locked it that I noticed the scrap of paper on the floor.

Someone had evidently slipped it under the door, which would explain the rustling sound I had heard. The paper had been torn off a cheap tablet, and it contained four words in a childish block print:
Go away. Don't interfere
. I held the message in my hand, staring down at it in total bewilderment. Go away from where? Don't interfere with what? It made no sense, no sense whatsoever.

I crumpled it up and tossed it into the wastebasket, convinced it was nothing more than a rather wicked prank. Checking to be sure the door was securely locked, I climbed back into bed, thoroughly irritated by the whole affair. Mysterious conversations, cryptic messages—what a preposterous way to be starting a holiday. Thank goodness I would be going on to Gordonwood in the morning. Aunt Agatha would undoubtedly find my little adventure quite amusing, and perhaps I would too. It would be absurd to let it worry me, and yet … I sighed deeply and closed my eyes, determined to banish the vague uneasiness I felt stealing over me.

CHAPTER TWO

Charlie Grayson agreed to drive me to Gordonwood the next morning. His manner was politely indifferent as he carried my bags out to the old Chevrolet he had brought around front. Putting my bags in the trunk, he opened the back door for me. Never once did he look directly into my eyes, and I fancied there was something rather furtive about him, as though he had indeed slipped the note under my door last night and was afraid I might make mention of it. There was a meter up front, as in a regular taxi, and he pulled the flag down and drove away from the inn as it began its monotonous click. I settled back in the seat, staring out the window at the quaint old shopfronts of Gordonville.

Gordonville proper looked much as it must have looked fifty years ago, I thought. The cobblestone street was worn smooth with age, and giant oak trees spread soft shadows over the uneven sidewalks, their leaves making a rustling brown-green canopy through which flecks of sunlight danced. With the exception of a somewhat garish cinema advertising the new Dirk Bogarde film, the buildings were of mellowed old brick, tan or beige, several of them adorned with white wooden filigree. The tea shop was pink brick, soft and subdued, while the town hall, across the village green, was of ponderous brownstone, its Victorian cupola green-tarnished copper. Were it not for the cars parked along the curbs and the unquestionably modern citizens ambling along the sidewalks, one could have sworn it was still the turn of the century.