That surprised Perry. “Boring? No. Not at all.”
“No?” Nick studied him doubtfully.
Perry shook his head, a little surprised that Nick didn’t know this. “No. Between school and work, it’s already hard to find time to paint. And I’d rather paint when you’re gone anyway, so I can just relax and concentrate and not feel like I’m missing out.”
“Missing out?”
“On spending time with you.”
Nick gave a funny groan and scooped Perry up the way he did sometimes, carrying him over his shoulder to the bed and dropping him onto the mattress.
Perry laughed up at him. He loved it when Nick got playful and pretended to roughhouse him. Underneath his hard exterior, Nick was a very gentle guy. Although when Perry had told him so, Nick had burst out laughing and said, “Only with you, kiddo. Only for you.”
It was one of the few times Perry hadn’t minded being called “kid.”
Now Nick knelt on the bed, shoving up Perry’s shirt and tracing the lines of Perry’s ribs with his fingertips. He looked almost solemn—probably about to deliver another sermon on nutrition. Perry reached up, held Nick’s head so he had to meet Perry’s eyes. He brushed Nick’s hard cheekbones with the edge of his thumbs.
“I’m fine. Stop worrying about me. I’m happy so long as we’re together.”
“We’re always together,” Nick said gruffly. “Even when we’re apart, we’re together.” His face was turning red—he almost never said things like that, and Perry felt a surge of protective tenderness.
“I want to paint you, Nick.”
Nick groaned. “Not that again.”
“Again? I’ve never done it. Only sketches. That’s not the same thing.”
“I can’t sit still that long,” Nick said, which wasn’t true. He did get restless, though.
Perry opened his mouth, but Nick ended the conversation by putting his head down and suckling the point of Perry’s nipple. His mouth was warm, his lips so very soft, especially in contrast to the rough velvet of his five—make that ten—o’clock shadow. Perry gulped and stretched, flexing his back and rubbing at the growing bulk at his own groin.
“So sweet,” Nick mouthed against him. His tongue rasped pleasurably against Perry’s almost painfully sensitive nipple. “Candy from my baby.”
That was a little joke. The ten years between them had initially worried Nick, and consciously or unconsciously, he had said and done some distancing things. Thank God he was over that. Perry had been twenty-three when they met. He was not remotely a child.
“Yes…” Perry closed his eyes, concentrating on the wet heat of Nick’s tongue flicking so delicately, deliciously at the taut points of his nipples. He whispered, “I like that.”
Really, there was nothing he didn’t like. Nothing they’d tried so far anyway. Nick was both indulgent and demanding when they made love—and it was always lovemaking with them—so much better than anything, anyone, Perry had dreamed of for all those years.
Nick knelt between his thighs, taking Perry’s throbbing cock in one hand and his aching balls in the other. Nick’s cock was thrusting up, swollen and dark against the hard, taut planes of his belly, but he was in no hurry. He never rushed this. Any of it.
Outside, the wind was pounding against the windows, but Perry felt safe and warm and happy. Nothing mattered but this moment with Nick.
Then Nick froze. His head shot up, listening. Perry heard it too. Someone was knocking softly on the door of their room.
Perry swore softly.
The tapping came again, a soft, almost nervous sound—although that was probably Perry’s imagination. You couldn’t tell from a knock if someone was nervous. He just took it for granted that anyone wandering around Angel’s Rest at night would be jumpy.
“Why am I not surprised?” Nick did a one-hip bounce off the mattress and grabbed his jeans. He was in them in two steps and opening the door on the third. Perry threw the bedspread over his lap—and then grabbed a pillow for good measure.
Horace stood on the other side of the door, blinking at the whoosh of air caused by Nick throwing the door wide. He wore a sumptuous black-and-orange kimono, as though he was starring in a Halloween version of The Mikado. His hair was scraped back in an almost ferociously neat ponytail.
Holding up a square crystal decanter of amber liquid, he said, “The good stuff. How about a nightcap?”
Not an emergency, then. As sympathetic to Horace as Perry was, he could cheerfully have strangled him right then. Nick was looking at him in inquiry. It was a serious question. Nick was more than capable of telling Horace thanks, but no thanks.
But the fact that Horace had turned up this late—and with a bottle of booze—made Perry think that just maybe, he was finally ready to talk. Or at least might, after a drink or two, be open to answering a few questions honestly. So Perry said quickly, “Sure,” as if there was nothing he wanted more than to spend yet another hour listening to Horace.
Nick sighed, gave the door a little push, and it swung open with a haunted-house creak. Horace swept in with an airy, “Grazie, dear boy. Grazie.”
Nick’s face was expressionless as he closed the door.
“How’s the room?” Horace asked vaguely, glancing at the dusty furniture and mob of black-clad mannequins. “Comfortable? Did you find everything you needed?”
Without waiting for their reply, he dropped into the chair next to the faux fireplace, deposited the three tumblers he was carrying on the small side table, and splashed an inch of golden liquid into each one. He picked up the nearest glass, sketched a salute, and said, “Cheers.”
Then he stared into the fireplace’s firebox as though there really was a grate and flames flickering there.
Nick wandered over, picked up the other two glasses, and carried them to the bed. He handed one to Perry and then perched on the foot of the mattress, studying their uninvited guest.
Perry sniffed his glass. Whisky probably. One of his least favorite drinks in the world. Partly because Nick was always trying to get him to drink “hot toddies” when he thought Perry was chilled or needed “beefing up.” The recipe for that ghastly concoction of water, whisky, herbs, and honey had been handed down by Nick’s granny, who was apparently the only member of his family he had fond memories of.
Nick waited, sipping his whisky. His brows shot up, so maybe it was the good stuff.
Perry took a cautious sip and grimaced inwardly. Nope. No whisky was the good stuff. He much preferred cocktails made with fruit juice and rum.
“What’s on your mind?” Nick asked finally.
Horace glanced over as if surprised to find them still there.
“Ah.” He took a belated swallow of his own drink. “Well. It’s only that I thought about what you said at dinner. It’s true. That is, I may have not been entirely…forthcoming this afternoon.”
Nick’s smile was grim. “You weren’t forthcoming at all.” He took another swallow of whisky.
Blunt but accurate. Horace had spent the entire afternoon talking, but had managed to avoid ever saying anything to the point. He had gossiped about his fellow actors, he had recounted some amusing on and off set antics by his least favorite director, he had talked about the making of Why Won’t You Die, My Darling? He had reminisced about getting drunk, getting stoned, getting beaten up, getting arrested. He had talked about the business manager who had cheated him and the business manager who had made him rich. He had talked about his plans for the museum that was never to be. He had talked and talked and talked.
Horace cleared his throat. “The trouble is, I do have…an inkling of who is behind these threats.”
“An inkling? Does this inkling have a name?”
“Troy. Troy Cavendish. We were friends once.”
Perry remembered Sissy referring to someone named Troy. She’d said something about a stabbing—and that Troy had brought it on himself.
Nick asked, “Troy Cavendish? Is that a stage name?”
Horace nodded. “He was an actor. For a time. He had a part in one of my films. Zombies of the Last Judgment.”
“Zombies of the…”
Nick didn’t bother trying to hide his distaste. Horace said haughtily, “My films were not great art, perhaps. But they entertained.”
“Sure,” Nick said indifferently. Perry refrained from volunteering the information that his parents had banned Horace’s movies.
Horace, lost in his memories, smiled faintly. “Troy wasn’t very good, but he was very pretty. We became…close.”
“What happened?” Perry asked.
“I don’t know really.” Horace sighed. “Maybe it was the booze, the pills, the pressure. I was working a lot, and he felt I could—should—do more to help his career.” Horace fell silent. “Maybe I could have,” he murmured sadly after a moment.
Nick said, “What was Troy’s real name?”
Horace squinted at some distant recollection. He said finally—and he was looking and speaking to Perry, “It wasn’t like it is now. We couldn’t be like you are with him.”
Perry nodded. He knew. Old people tended to confide in him. Apparently, he had one of those faces. He knew that even during the legendary sexual revolution, most of the country had still held very narrow views of homosexuality.
“It would have damaged my career—and I was already doing plenty of that on my own.” Horace smiled with unexpected charm. Then his smile faded. “But Troy didn’t believe that. He kept pushing for more and more. I couldn’t give him what he wanted.”
“How long ago was this?” Nick questioned. “It had to be a while back.”
“It would have been the seventies. ’78? ’79?”
Nick sighed. “You’re telling me you believe this Troy Cavendish has been trying to kill you every Halloween since 1978?”
“I know it sounds strange.”
Nick’s eyebrows rose. He glanced at Perry. Perry tried, without words, to urge Nick to let Horace tell his story in his own way. He knew there was more to this. A lot more. There had to be if decades later, Horace was still getting choked up about it.
“It was Troy’s idea to buy Angel’s Rest. It was still running as a hotel back then, though its heyday years were long past. And it was his idea to start a museum with the memorabilia I’d collected through the years. I can’t say he had a head for business, but he was very clever.”
“How long were you together?” Perry asked.
“Three years. A little more than three years.”
“How did it end?”
“Badly. As we began to grow further apart, Troy became involved with a local group of…I suppose you would have to call them occultists. He began to dabble in black magic and sorcery.”
“Satanism?” That was Nick. Satanism was about the extent of Nick’s knowledge of the occult. Perry, on the other hand, had gone to high school with kids who openly identified as witches or Wicca.
“Perhaps. He denied it, but perhaps. He became more and more enmeshed with them.”
“And you argued over his, er, religious beliefs?” Nick asked.
“Yes. Often. But that wasn’t what broke us up.” Horace turned back to the nonexistent fire and stared moodily at the wall.
“What broke you up?”
Horace closed his eyes, shook his head. He opened his eyes. “I had decided to marry Wynne. Troy came home one morning after one of their séances or summonings—whatever they were doing—and found us in bed.”
Perry had to bite his lip at Nick’s expression. This had to be a new twist on cheating-spouse cases.
“Wynne?” Nick repeated. “Wynne Winthrop? The woman who lives downstairs? The one we met at dinner?”
“Yes. Wynne and I have been great friends for years. We worked together a lot. She was my costar in Why Won’t You Die, My Darling? Prudence is the only character who survives, if you recall.” When neither Perry nor Nick recalled, Horace forged on. “The gossip rags always linked us together—not unfairly. She was in love with me back then, though she knew I was gay. Before Troy, we used to share a bed when we were between partners.”
“That would make you bisexual, not gay,” Nick said. He was a stickler for details.
“Whatever. I digress.” Horace shuddered. “When Troy found us in bed, he…went crazy. He tried to kill us both. I got the knife away from him—”
Horace broke off, blinking like someone who had just woken from a trance. “I never saw him again.”
Clearly, there was a lot of story missing between I got the knife away from him and I never saw him again.
“How is that possible?” Perry asked.
Horace didn’t appear to hear.
“Where’s Cavendish living now?” Nick was brisk.
“I don’t know.”
Maybe Horace really hadn’t checked the return address on those threatening letters. Or maybe there hadn’t been a return address.
“But you’re sure he’s the one sending you these letters?” When Horace nodded, Nick pressed, “Why? Were they signed?”
“Oh no! Certainly not.”
“Was there anything specific in the letters that made you believe the author had to be Cavendish?”
Horace looked confused. “No. I don’t think so. But who else could it be?”
“When did the first letter arrive?”
“I don’t remember. Years ago.”
“Forty years ago?”
“No. No, maybe five years ago.”
“And that’s when the attempts on your life began?”
“Yes.”
“You just said Cavendish has been trying to kill you since 1978.”
Horace grew flustered. “He first tried in 1978. He tried to stab me, as I just told you.”
“Did he try again before the letters started five years ago?”
“N-no. I don’t believe so.” Horace seemed unsure. Wasn’t it an odd thing not to be certain of?
“Okay. Cavendish tries to kill you in ’78. Then nothing happens until five years ago when the threats and the…what? Accidents? Start up again.”
Perry knew exactly what Nick was thinking. Why would Troy Cavendish wait so long to start sending threatening letters? And yet sometimes it did happen that way. Nick had told him about a case where a man had only started stalking his ex-girlfriend after he’d lost his job and his wife had divorced him. Of course, that had only been two years, not nearly forty.
“Yes.” Horace answered Nick. He sounded a little testy.
“Just making sure I’ve got the whole story,” Nick said. “How were these accidents arranged? What kind of accidents were they?”
“How should I know how they were arranged!”
Nick remained patient. “What kind of accidents were they?” he asked again.
“The giant carved headboard on my bed came loose and nearly crushed me. The chandelier over the dining table came down. The wiring in my bathroom—”
“It’s an old building. Did you have someone come in and examine the wiring and the light fixture and the bed?”
“No!”
“Why not?” Nick asked reasonably. He was not being unkind, but it was not pleasant to watch him dismantle Horace’s story. Horace was getting more and more rattled.
“They would have claimed I did it myself. For attention.”
Perry questioned, “Who would?”
“The police. The electricians. Those vultures Sissy and Jonah. But I know these were genuine attempts on my life. No, I can’t prove it. Yes, they were supposed to look like accidents. But I ask you, why would these things only happen to me? Why would they only happen in my rooms?”
If that was true, it was a fair question. But was it true? How reliable a witness was Horace?
Judging by Nick’s reaction to Horace’s story, not very.
“Who was the man watching the house tonight?” Nick questioned. “That wasn’t any seventy-year-old.”
“I don’t know. How should I know? I didn’t see him
.”
Nick studied Horace as though trying to decide if he believed him or not. “And what’s Cavendish’s real name?”
Horace hesitated, seemed to make his mind up. “Tom Ciesielski.”
“There can’t be too many of those in the phone book,” Nick remarked. He rose. “All right. Thank you for sharing this information. I’ll start following this lead tomorrow.”
That was Horace’s cue, but he didn’t move. He looked at Nick and then Perry. “I did love him,” he said. “I really did.”
“Sure you did,” Nick replied.
Nick had had to hide his sexuality during his years in the military, but he seemed to have no sympathy for Horace. Maybe his coolness stemmed from his distaste for Horace’s cheating on Troy. Nick did not have much patience for cheaters. Added to that was the fact that Horace was a difficult personality: demanding, melodramatic, and completely self-absorbed.
Maybe Horace was playacting most of the time, but just for a moment, Perry thought he saw the glitter of tears in the old man’s eyes.
Chapter Eight
“I think he still loves Troy,” Perry said after Nick locked the door behind Horace and returned to bed.
“If you want to call that love.” Nick was brusque. He didn’t want Perry growing melancholy over Horace’s tragic past. Most of the tragedy had been brought on by Horace’s poor life choices.
Perry tipped his head, thinking. What Nick always thought of as his Christopher Robin look. “I don’t see how Troy could be behind all this, though. He can’t be sneaking into the hotel every year, let alone living here in disguise. It was forty years ago. He might not even be alive.”
“Agreed,” Nick said.
“I mean, I can see why Horace would make the connection, and Troy could be sending the letters, though it’s weird he would wait so long—and what would be the point? The creepy skeleton costumes do kind of tie in with the occultist theme, but…”
“Yeah,” Nick agreed. “The whole thing is very unlikely.” He met Perry’s troubled gaze, and made a face. “I promise to find out what happened to Troy Cavendish aka Tom Ciesielski. Okay? Word of honor. In the meantime, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted…”
The Ghost Had an Early Check-Out Page 8