Houses of Stone

by Kathy

  "Oh. What do you hope to get from Mrs. Madison?"

  "One never knows."

  "All right, be mysterious." Karen glanced at the paper. "Number three: take photographs. You brought your camera?"

  "Yes. I had planned to take photographs of the house anyway. I bought some extra film this morning."

  "Do you want to do it this afternoon?"

  "Tomorrow. I told Cameron to have the workers there—"

  She broke off, looking as if she wanted to clap her hand over her mouth.

  "So," Karen said gently, "you told Cameron we'd be there tomorrow.

  I suppose we are calling on Mrs. Madison this afternoon? You made those appointments—you told Lisa we'd be around for a few days—and yet this morning you tried to talk me into leaving immediately."

  "I made you an offer," Peggy corrected. "It had to be your decision. I wouldn't have blamed you for getting cold feet. Are you sure you want to go ahead with ..."

  Karen's eyes returned to the list. "Number four: investigate the stone house. Of course I want to go ahead with it. If I don't go back to that clearing I'll wonder all my life what it was we heard that day, and despise myself for being too cowardly to find out."

  "It should be an interesting experiment," Peggy said dubiously.

  "It's a lovely old house," Karen said, as Peggy brought the car to a stop in front of one of the sprawling Victorian mansions on West Main Street. "What a pity the Madisons have let it deteriorate. I suppose they don't have much money."

  "It's Cameron's house," Peggy said.

  "What?" Karen stared at her.

  "Get with it, girl. Didn't Tanya tell you her mother baby-sits with Mrs. Hayes? According to Lisa, the old lady is a candidate for a nursing home; she must be bedridden, or, as Lisa nicely put it, senile."

  "She's got a heart as big as all outdoors," Karen muttered, remembering Lisa's cold dismissal of her aunt. "And Cameron's not exactly the dutiful son, is he? You'd think he could keep his mother's house in better repair instead of spending all his time and effort on something he expects to make money on."

  The crumbling bricks of the walk and the overgrown lawn showed the same signs of neglect as the house. They approached the steps to the veranda cautiously; they were solid, though there was very little paint left on them.

  Their knock was promptly answered. Mrs. Madison, a slim woman with a smooth, unlined face, had been watching for them. "It's nice to have company," she said ingenuously. "I get pretty bored with nothing to do all day except read and watch the soaps."

  She must do more than read and watch the soaps. The living room was shabby but very neat and clean, and the silver tea set arranged on a table shone with polishing. "You shouldn't have gone to so much trouble," Peggy said, as Mrs. Madison offered a steaming cup.

  "Oh, it's no trouble. Like I said, I'm pleased to have somebody to talk to."

  "Mrs. Hayes doesn't ..." Peggy paused tactfully.

  Mrs. Madison glanced at a closed door. "She sleeps a lot. This is usually one of her quiet times, so I hope we'll be able to have a nice chat. Tanya told me what you're doing. It sounds real interesting. I don't know if I can be any help, but go ahead and ask anything you want."

  Peggy beamed approvingly at her. "Good. You don't mind if I take notes?"

  Mrs. Madison looked dubious. Interpreting her reaction correctly, Peggy added, "This is off the record. If we want to publish any information you give us, we'll ask your permission first."

  The other woman's face cleared. She nodded. "That's fair. It's just that I wouldn't want to embarrass Cameron, or make trouble for Tanya. Some of the folks in this town take old history too personally."

  "I know what you mean," Karen said, feeling it was time for her to join in the conversation. "My landlady, for one."

  The other woman's face rounded with laughter. "Tanya told me about your talk. She liked it a lot."

  "I probably shouldn't have done it, though," Karen said ruefully. "I was rather rude. And now Mrs. Fowler won't have anything to do with me."

  "She wouldn't be much use to you. She's a terrible malicious old gossip. You can't believe nothing she says."

  "I'm sure you'll be a much more reliable source," Peggy said, folding back a page of her notebook. "You lived at Amberley when you were a child, didn't you?"

  "Uh-huh. My mama and daddy worked for old Mr. Cartright back— oh, land, it must be forty years ago. Before he got so queer and mean." She settled back, hands folded on her lap. "We lived in the main house, in those rooms near the kitchen. The servants' houses had tumbled down long before and there was plenty of room, with just old Mr. Josiah living there. It was a quiet, peaceful place for children to grow up, but awful lonesome, no neighbors or nothing. We had chickens and dogs and cats, though, and all those acres to wander in."

  "Do you remember a kind of hollow, a clearing in the woods, with an old ruined building of some kind?"

  "We didn't go there much."

  "Why not?"

  "There were stories about it." She shrugged deprecatingly. "You don't want to hear them; they were just old tales, the kind kids tell to scare themselves with."

  "That's exactly what I want to hear," Peggy said eagerly. "Please go on."

  "Well." She settled back again, a reminiscent smile on her face. "You know how kids are. My brother Tyrone loved to tease the little ones. He was the one who told us about the slave house. That's what the stones were, he said. The place where the old devil—not Mr. Josiah; the old man that built the house all those years ago—where he put the slaves who'd stood up to him or tried to run away. He'd shut them up in the stone house, in the dark, without food or water, and leave them there."

  "How horrible!" Karen exclaimed.

  "It was just a story," Mrs. Madison said.

  "Maybe not," Peggy said quietly. "I've heard of worse things."

  "There couldn't be anything much worse," Karen muttered. "God, how awful."

  "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you," Mrs. Madison said. She and Peggy exchanged glances, and Karen realized she had sounded like a naive child. Of course there were worse things. And people had done them, all of them, to other people.

  "Anyhow, it all happened a long time ago," Mrs. Madison said soothingly. "To us kids they were just scary stories. But we didn't go there much. The place had a funny feeling about it. Probably because Tyrone was such a good storyteller. He said he'd heard them screaming. Now you know that was just foolishness, because you couldn't have heard anything through those thick stone walls even if there had been people inside. There was no proof such a thing ever happened."

  Peggy carefully avoided looking at Karen. "Was the stone house intact when you were a child?" she asked.

  "I guess so. It was all covered with brush and vines, and we didn't look close at it."

  "Do you know about Mrs. Fowler's book?" Peggy was scribbling furiously.

  "The ghost book? Yes, sure. Lot of lies in it," Mrs. Madison said calmly.

  "She mentions a Screaming Lady."

  "Oh, yeah, that was another one of Tyrone's stories. I don't know where he heard 'em. He was the oldest."

  "You never heard anything, or felt anything—in the house or elsewhere?"

  Mrs. Madison frowned thoughtfully. "Hard to remember now what really happened and what's imagination. I was real little . . . We didn't go in the main part of the house much. We weren't allowed to, you see. Tyrone said there was some awful scary statue in the cellar, but I never saw it; Mama wouldn't let us young ones go down there, it was all mud and mess, she said. But Tyrone managed to have a look. He was a real curious youngster, and not scared of anything."

  "Tyrone sounds like quite a guy," Peggy said with a smile. "What's he doing now?"

  "He died in Vietnam."

  "What a waste. I'm so sorry."

  "Thank you." Mrs. Madison got to her feet. "Excuse me just a minute. I think I hear—"

  Karen hadn't heard anything, but when Mrs. Madison opened the closed door, the sound
came clearer—a wordless whine, like the complaint of a sleepy baby. A faint but unmistakable, unpleasant odor accompanied it.

  "Excuse me," Mrs. Madison said again. She closed the door, but Karen had already seen the big bed and its occupant. The body under the heaped up blankets was invisible, too wasted even to lift them; the face might have been that of a man or a woman or a waxen mask, vacant and sightless. A stream of saliva trickled from the open mouth.

  Peggy had seen it too. Karen heard her breath catch. Then she said softly, "For once Lisa seems to have understated the case."

  "Good God," Karen breathed. "You sound so—

  "Don't lecture me about compassion, Karen. I've just seen my worst nightmare—the thing all aging people dread most. To be a prisoner in your own rotting body ..."

  "Let's go. I can't stand this."

  "You can't stand it?"

  "Surely she doesn't know—"

  "We can hope she doesn't, can't we? Sit down. We'll take a gracious, well-bred leave when Mrs. Madison returns. I think I've got most of what I wanted from her."

  Peggy studied her notes. Karen studied her. After a while Peggy said, without looking up, "Sorry I snapped at you. Your kind heart does you credit. You'll toughen up as you get older."

  "Is that a threat or a promise?"

  The walls of the old house were thick and solid. They had no warning of his approach; the door opened, and there he was.

  The words of greeting froze on Karen's lips. She had once wondered what it would be like to see Cameron lose his temper. Apparently she was about to find out.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" His voice was soft, but so distorted by anger it was barely recognizable.

  "Why, Cameron," Peggy began.

  He turned to face her, muscles squirming under the stretched skin of his cheeks and jaw. "You, too. Of all the contemptible, filthy tricks! Forcing yourself in here, invading the privacy of a woman who's too sick to protect herself—"

  The bedroom door opened, and Mrs. Madison said quietly, "Oh, hello, Cameron. I thought I heard your voice. You're early."

  He stared at her, struggling for breath as if he were choking on the words he wanted to say. At last habitual good manners—or Mrs. Madison's air of conscious virtue?—prevailed. He muttered, "I—I had to make a few phone calls. Go home, Jenny, there's no need for you to stay."

  "I have to wait for Tanya to pick me up," Mrs. Madison said.

  "We'll be happy to drop you off, Mrs. Madison," Peggy said.

  Cameron offered to call Tanya, and refused to let Mrs. Madison clear away the tea-things; he was obviously desperate to get rid of them, so Mrs. Madison agreed. "I changed her and got her settled down," she said in a matter-of-fact voice. "You should have a couple of hours to yourself."

  Peggy cleared her throat. "Is it still on for tomorrow morning, Cameron?"

  "Uh—yes. Right. Thanks, Jenny."

  He stood in the open door watching them as they picked their way along the treacherous surface of the walk. They were in the car and on their way before Karen ventured to speak.

  "I hope we didn't ... He won't be angry with you, will he, for letting us come?'

  "Oh, no," Mrs. Madison said placidly. "He doesn't like people seeing her like that, is all. But he'll get over it—two nice ladies like you. Some people in this town, not naming any names, aren't so understanding."

  "It's very good of you to take on that job," Peggy said warmly. "Not everyone would."

  "She's just like a poor little baby," Mrs. Madison murmured. "No harm in her at all. There but for the grace of God . . . Anyhow, poor Cameron's got enough to worry about. I'm only there eight, ten hours a day. He's got her the rest of the time. And it's harder, you know, when it's one of your own."

  They dropped her off and headed for the motel. Neither spoke for some time. Finally Karen murmured, " 'Sometimes it is better not to see what lies hidden in the dark.' "

  "Very philosophical. What brought that on?"

  "Just thinking."

  Peggy did not pursue the subject. To judge by her expression, her thoughts were running along the same uncomfortable lines as Karen's. But she's not the one who should feel guilty, Karen told herself. I interpreted his reserve, his refusal of my offer of friendship, as a personal affront. I despised him for being greedy and money-mad. In my consummate selfishness, it never occurred to me that he might have good reasons for behaving as he did, reasons that had nothing to do with me.

  She twisted uncomfortably and raised one hand to shield her flushed face from Peggy's curious glance. "What's bugging you?" Peggy asked.

  "I hate feeling like a jerk."

  "So do I. You'll get used to it," Peggy said with a wry smile. "It's the inevitable consequence of being a human being."

  They found a number of messages waiting for them. Peggy thumbed through them as they rode up in the elevator. "Aren't we popular? Here's one from Cameron; we needn't return his call, we've already heard what he thinks of us. At least he hasn't canceled our permit to excavate . . . Lisa! I'll call her first; she may have something for us ... William Something or other—I can't read the writing. Is that the fire chief? Better call him, it's probably an official demand . . . Bill Meyer . . . Bobby Mansfield . . . The pimply brother-in-law. What do you suppose he wants?"

  "He's probably wondering if I'm going to sue the old lady," Karen grumbled. "And hoping to charm me out of it. The hell with him, I don't want to talk to him."

  "How about Bill?" Peggy unlocked the door.

  "I don't want to talk to him either."

  "He might buy us dinner."

  "I don't want—"

  "Oh, all right. I'll talk to him. You have no objection to his joining us tomorrow, I hope."

  It wasn't a question, so Karen didn't answer it. She unpacked her purchases and employed her brand-new toothbrush while Peggy spoke on the telephone. When she came out of the bathroom Peggy reported, "Bill is deeply hurt but resigned. He'll meet us tomorrow at Amberley. Lisa's on her way over here. I figured we might as well make her come to us if she's as eager as she sounds. She must have something good. You've got time to call Bill the Chief before we meet her in the bar."

  She sat on the bed listening while Karen talked. "What was that all about?" she demanded, as Karen slammed the phone into the cradle. "I can see you're furious, but I didn't get enough out of your side of the conversation to make sense of it. Did I hear something about smoking? He didn't imply—"

  "He didn't. Mrs. Fowler did." Karen bit off the words. "She claimed I must have been smoking in bed. There's no other way the fire could have started, she says."

  "Well, she would say that, wouldn't she? A good offense is the best defense. How about the papers and paint cans in the garage?"

  "She says Bobby Boy cleared the garage out that day. He supports her. It's my word against theirs, and I can't even swear the garage wasn't empty when we got there that night. I didn't look."

  "Well, well. Now we know why Bobby Boy called, don't we? They can't prove negligence on your part since there was none, so he's hoping to scare you into a tidy little out-of-court settlement."

  "It won't work."

  "Of course not. Have the cops got any idea how the fire did start?"

  Karen's furious scowl turned to a thoughtful frown. "I got the distinct impression that there is something suspicious about it. I mean, wouldn't the chief have told me if it was something like spontaneous combustion or faulty wiring?"

  "Maybe not. Officials of all varieties are tight-lipped by nature." Peggy glanced at her watch. "We'd better go down and meet Lisa the Greek."

  "The who?"

  "You know about Greeks bearing gifts." Peggy picked up her purse and gestured toward the door.

  Lisa was waiting for them. She had already ordered a drink—not a ladylike pastel concoction or a glass of white wine, but a stiff shot of Bourbon. Before getting down to business she wanted to know all about the fire. There was something almost ghoulish about her repeated questions a
nd expressions of concern. Finally Peggy put an end to them.

  "So how is Mrs. Fowler?"

  "They sent her home this afternoon. She's still pretty upset, as you can imagine. Bobby is staying with her till she gets over the shock."

  "Shock, hell." Peggy didn't bother being tactful. "She ought to be apologizing to Karen and thanking her. Her negligence was responsible for the fire, and if the house had caught she'd have been burned in her bed. She was dead drunk."

  Lisa choked. "That's a terrible accusation to make."

  "It's the truth," Peggy said. "I'm tired of gossip and innuendo and veiled threats. You tell the old bitch we know what she's trying to do, and she isn't going to get away with it. If she wants to start trouble she'll get more than she's bargained for."

  "I don't—"

  "Of course you don't. Let's drop the subject. What have you got?"

  Wide-eyed and silent, Lisa produced her offering. It was a Bible—a huge folio four inches thick, with brass clasps and engravings from Durer. Lips set in a sneer, Peggy thumbed through the pages at the front. "No good," she said curtly.

  "What? You said you wanted—"

  "This edition was printed in 1890. We've already got this information, it's in the genealogy."

  She laid the book on the table and held it open. The page was headed "Births" and framed by an elaborate border of vines and flowers and fat, doughy-faced cherubs. The first name was that of Frederick Cartright, born February 18, 1798. Karen recognized the name; it had been that generation, the third, that Peggy had investigated in such detail. Peggy closed the Bible and pushed it toward Lisa.

  "You don't want it?" Lisa's face had fallen.

  Peggy shrugged. "I'll give you twenty bucks for it. As a gesture of goodwill."

  After Lisa had gone—with the twenty-dollar bill—Peggy paid the check and hoisted the Bible into her arms. "That was a bust. I guess I should have expected it."

  Karen had remained silent, transfixed by mingled horror and admiration. Following Peggy into the elevator she exclaimed, "You were absolutely vicious. What happened to your policy of winning people over by tact and kindness?"