“How did you end up out in this cow pasture, for God’s sake?”
“It’s fuzzy. I’m not sure what happened. I was daydreaming and found myself going off the road.” She reaches out a hand to stabilize herself with his thick forearm, then introduces us and tells me he is Ramey’s cousin.
“Georgie is a famous singer. He changed his name from George Sandeley to Georgie La Pointe because he sings with a French group,” she says and wipes mascara from under her eyes.
“You’ve got Ramey’s smile,” I say, looking up into his ruggedly handsome face.
“Should I say thanks?” he replies with a note of sarcasm. “He told me you were visiting. You’re more beautiful than he described, typical of the asshole. He tries to keep me out of his territory.”
He wraps one arm around Ruth’s waist and the other around my shoulder. “Let’s walk up the hill a bit. I want to make sure you gals are okay before you get the car back on the road.”
“We’re already late for the dinner at Roger’s.”
“How are you, honey, any aches or pains?”
He leans down, and the frames of his glasses touch my eyelashes as he looks deep inside my eyes. “It doesn’t look like your pupils are dilated.”
The difference in our height puts my eye level at the hollow of his neck, where many necklaces are intertwined and hang down onto his hairless chest. A large medallion swings from a piece of leather that is inscribed with the same triple circle with an arrow as the latch on the door to Ramey’s room.
“Walk back up the hill and I’ll get the car up to you,” he says. We follow behind, kicking aside rotting fruit, moving through the heavy sweet smell, batting away the wasps feeding on bruised apple skin, while trying to stay clear of the dirt and rocks the tires spit out as the vehicle climbs up to the roadside.
“I’ll call Ruth about setting up a night for you to come to my show,” he says as he steps out of the vehicle.
“We’ll talk soon,” Ruth says.
He shines us a charming grin, then strides down the road toward a cherry-red sports car.
“George is a raving narcissist. I don’t think I have seen him with the same woman more than once,” she says as we head back to Black Lake.
“He is very charismatic.”
“I’ve been tempted more than once, especially after one of his concerts. But my husband would kill me if he found out I cheated with his archrival.”
She takes a gold bullet lipstick from her make-up pouch and applies a burgundy stain.
“Ramey and Georgie are like dangerously competitive brothers. They’re only children born days apart in the same hospital, and Scorpios, for God’s sake. They went to the same schools and spent summers together on the lake. Both lost their mothers at an early age. Georgie’s mom ran off with the stained glass craftsman hired to inlay the Sandeley family crest above the front door. His dad used a shotgun to shatter the masterpiece after he read the note she left on her pillow.”
She retrieves the sunglass case from the glovebox and removes a pair of large oval glasses.
“It’s the witching hour,” I say, and raise my hand to cover the blinding rays of the falling sun that shine through the branches of the trees outlining the road.
Ruth lets out a snort. “Yep. It’s cocktail hour.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE FEAST AT ROGER SANDELEY’S
“DOUGGIE RAYE IS A MYSTIC.” RUTH TURNS ONTO A PRIVATE ROAD lined with narrow trees stationed evenly apart, like stealthy sentinels. “Don’t be alarmed when you see him, because the man is pretty scary looking. He’s blind, but he can see people’s auras. Ramey’s dad met him when he was living in the Amazon jungle. His family is loaded, but he chucked it all to live with the Shaman of the Andes. I’d guess all the peyote and mushrooms he ingested scrambled his brain for good.”
We pass enormous sculptures of winged knights on horseback flanking an ivy-covered brick bastion and enter the grounds of the estate. “Roger is Ramey’s dad’s brother. He’s obsessive too, but in a different way–he has a fixation with medieval history. He studied all the great castles of Europe before he had his built.” A Tudor mansion, with six turrets and a lowered footbridge spanning a narrow moat, looms ahead.
“Uncle Roger has collected replicas of some of the most gruesome torture devices in his dungeon. The iron maiden chills my bones. We can take a tour if you like; there’s an awesome wine cellar next door,” she says and parks the car along the border of the circular entrance.
“Maybe another time.”
“Careful.” Ruth says. “It’s slippery on the stones, and the bridge has gaps between the planks; you may want to take off your heels. I usually carry mine to the door.
“Don’t let Seth, the butler, freak you out. He’s a hoot, but strange. He grew up in some hellhole orphanage and has never been touched or kissed. The water in the moat is really low this time of year. At Christmastime you can hear it rushing below,” Ruth tells me, and peeks over the railing of the drawbridge. “For a prank, when they were schoolboys, Ramey and Georgie hired their favorite hooker to give Seth his first lay. The poor guy broke down and confessed he had never felt a woman’s touch.”
We slip back into our shoes at the castle’s steel-girded front doors, and Ruth turns a silver latch set into the stone wall.
“You look beautiful, Alexandra. The black velvet suit with the white ruffled blouse is one of Mimi’s signature looks. It’s a classic, and the ruby choker is a stunning accent. Was it purchased at Mimi’s, as well?”
“I found it in my shopping bag, wrapped with the suit.”
The heavy doors slowly open and a man nearly seven feet tall appears in front of us. He is impeccably dressed in a dark gray tuxedo with tails, a crisp shirt with gold studs, cufflinks, and white gloves. He holds his spine in perfect alignment, with shoulders back and head held high. His lush silver hair is combed in smooth waves away from a broad expressionless face, highlighted by midnight-blue eyes that possess the innocence of a child.
“Good evening, Madame. Your husband is in the dining room.” Seth speaks deliberately in a deep, resonate tone.
He turns and we follow him into a massive entry hall. The room’s slate flooring is broken in the center with a circle of tourmaline marble, where a gilded chest rests on a leather stand. Medieval suits of armor line the length of the vestibule complete with authentic looking swords, lances, and steel balls. Carved wood caskets along the walls hold ancient looking artifacts.
Moving to the center of the foyer, I peek inside the gilded coffer. Inside, lies a solitary iron spear, black with age, resting on a faded red velvet dais within an open leather case. Its long tapered point is supported by a wide base with metal flanges depicting the wings of a dove. A nail head of the blade secures it to the shaft with gold, silver, and copper wire. On the side of the lowest portion of the base, a series of T’s are embossed.
“What do the letters mean?”
“All I know is what I heard Roger tell the children. It’s supposed to be the Spear of Destiny,” Ruth says, as she moves next to me and peers inside. “He claims this is the original, and the one locked up in a famous European museum is a fake. Supposedly the world’s greatest rulers have used it to defeat their enemies. I’m sure it’s a load of crap, but the kids loved the story.”
“I would be frightened to sleep here at night.”
“The children believe the knights come to life and wander through the house. Ramey and Georgie once dressed in the armor and waited for Roger. When he came home, they followed him down the hallway with their lances at his back. It scared the hell out of their uncle. They had to take him to the hospital for observation afterwards.”
“The gentlemen are waiting,” Seth proclaims. He stands next to a set of partly ajar doors at the end of a long corridor.
As we approach, I hear a man’s voice grandly emoting from inside. “My granddaddy used to tell me you can change without growing, but you can’t grow without changing.
That’s what he said, and that is what I believe.”
“It’s Roger,” Ruth whispers.
Seth opens the vaulted doors, and Roger’s voice booms out with the fervor and practiced tonal mannerisms of a minister speaking to his congregation. “The point is, if something is based on a lie, you can never make it right or true; the same goes for the opposite. If the primitives had true knowledge, then it can never be completely vanquished, and that is the problem. Isolation and consumerism are powerful solutions, but we need to keep a thumb on the renegades.”
“Well said, I concur,” a man’s voice chimes in, followed by Seth clearing his throat.
“It is not like you to be this late, Ruth, dear,” Roger’s voice bellows from across the room.
“We were having such a wonderful day in Montreal, time got away from us,” Ruth says, as we enter a grand dining hall adorned with faded watercolor frescos of jousting knights, lit by flaming torches. A king-sized wood table bisects the room.
The scene at the table resembles the depiction of Christ’s last supper, except the figure of Christ is a drooling old mystic in a wheelchair and the disciples, middle-aged businessmen in navy blue jackets. A roasted pig lies displayed on a silver platter in the center, with a fat cumquat stuffed in its mouth and eyes artfully stitched closed with black thread. Copper decanters, hefty wine goblets, and half-eaten loaves of bread litter the table, and dripping candles set in triple-tiered candelabrums throw wildly flickering shadows up the walls.
They stand as we enter, all except Douggie Raye, who remains slouched in his wheelchair. Ramey slides his chair back and strides forward to greet us. He is dressed in a black cashmere jacket with a gray shirt and charcoal trousers, and his lustrous hair cascades down his neck and onto the back collar of his silk shirt.
“You girls look gorgeous. Alexandra, you’re a new woman; the city suits you, eh?” Ramey bestows me with the customary kiss to each cheek, leaving behind an intoxicating mixture of woodsy pine and musk.
“Darling,” Ruth says, and snuggles up for a lingering kiss. “We ran into Georgie on our way back.”
“I should have guessed La Pointe caused the delay. Come with me, dear,” Ramey says, and takes my arm. “Let me introduce you to my uncle.”
As I approach the table I note that Roger Sandeley does not share the rare physical beauty of his nephew. Though tall, well built, and impeccably groomed, he looks well into his sixties, with a bald pate and gray fringe. He moves to greet me in a courtly manner, bordering cavalier. But as I draw closer, I find myself being swept into his orbit, and the draw of a baser character, one of vigorous virility, and quenchless ego takes charge. He carries the aura of the anointed, one who expects all heads to bow and a few to roll.
“Welcome dear.” Roger ignores my offered hand and pulls me against him. The coarse bristles of his heavy mustache scrape my face as he bestows a kiss to each cheek, leaving behind a stamp, a numb print seeping skin to bone. There is no touch of flesh in this intimate gesture and his eyes, though seeking, are cloaked in darkness.
Over his shoulder I observe Luna, dressed in ivory silk with dark hair gathered up into a tight chignon, enter the room from the kitchen. “Roger, the chef would like to speak with you,” she says.
“Excuse me.” Roger releases me and turns to walk to the kitchen.
“Alexandra, when did you arrive, dear?” Luna asks.
“I need to talk to my husband in private,” Ruth says, and grasps his arm.
“Whatever you have to say can be said in public.” Ramey stiffens at her touch, his voice struggling to camouflage a perceptible contempt.
“It’s a private matter, darling.” Ruth is obviously irked at his response, and as an exclamation she turns away from him.
Ramey clenches his jaw, then politely excuses himself, and follows her out.
“Who is this beautiful creature who has entered the room? She throws off the radiance of intense spirituality and healing and the violet light of magic, mysticism, and vision. A lavender root is the highest vibration frequency in the world. Bring this lovely creature to me.” Douggie Raye speaks in a warbling voice and stares across the room through eyes covered in milky film.
“Alexandra, let me introduce you to Mr. Raye,” Luna says, and leads me to the table. Douggie reaches out a brown-spotted, purple-veined hand. His touch sends shivers of sensation through my body, like icy blue electricity.
“You glow with a mysterious inner light, and have been called into the world for a divine purpose. Why are you so frightened of yourself, my dear?”
“I was not aware that I am frightened of myself,” I say and smile wanly to conceal my discomfort.
“My dear, please sit down. You are the guest of honor and will sit next to me this evening,” Douggie tells me.
Ramey reenters the room with Ruth following close behind. “May I sit in the chair next to you?” he asks me as he approaches the table.
“Of course,” I say and a shudder passes through me as I turn to catch a glimpse of his eyes, nearly savage.
Ruth’s orbs look quite different from her husband’s—unblinking, fixed on an indefinable object stationed across the room. And her mascara, perfectly applied earlier, is now smeared onto her lower lids and her lips are pursed tight and void of the lipstick she wore before she left the room.
Douggie observes with sightless eyes, while his saliva makes a trail down his chin and onto the cloth he has tucked as a bib.
“I’m going to ring the bell,” Roger says as he reenters the room. He moves into the corner, where he yanks on a braided cord with a gilded tassel. A deep chime rings out and nearly a dozen French maids, dressed in traditional uniforms, move briskly around the guests, speaking in soft voices. A pretty young thing with wide eyes rimmed in clumped lashes approaches Ramey with a silver platter holding napkins, and asks him a question in French.
“She wants to know what part of the pig you want to eat,” Ramey says.
“Whatever you recommend,” I say and accept a linen.
Ramey says something to the girl in French that makes her drop the platter, which causes a clanging sound to reverberate throughout the room.
“Someone’s at the door; I just heard the bell,” exclaims Douggie.
Roger rings his fork against a crystal glass. “I would like to take this opportunity to welcome you to my manor, Alexandra. It pleases us to have you join us here today as we partake of the harvest from our land and celebrate the upcoming summer solstice. We give our homage to Dionysius. Here, here...” he says, as they all raise their glasses.
“Welcome,” the other men chime in and drink their wine in unison.
Douggie Raye takes a drink from his glass, swirls the crimson liquid between his rubbery lips, and licks at the wayward drops that slip down his chin. “I hear you’re staying on the island, at the house on Black Lake, old Schlotter’s house.” He makes a stab with his fork that flips the meat into his lap, and brings the utensil to his lips to suck the empty tongs.
“I’m not staying there any longer.” As I speak these words, the monotonous sounds of dining—the clink of silver on china, cleared throats, murmurs, all sounds—cease, and the room grows as solemn as the interior of a sealed tomb. The French maids retire to the side of the room, where they stand perfectly aligned and motionless.
“And where, my dear, are you now staying?” Roger asks in a measured tone, polite, if not somewhat subdued.
“She’s staying at our house, in the basement,” Ruth announces.
“Well, that is not a place for a guest of the enclave to reside. I insist you stay here with us. We have plenty of extra rooms. It would be far more comfortable for you to stay with Luna and me.”
“Yes, dear, of course, you’re quite welcome to stay with us for as long as you like,” Luna says.
“Thank you for the kind invitation, but my son enjoys staying with the children.”
Roger taps his fingertips against his glass, while Luna says, “I understand.”
“Schlotter’s living in the land of the damned where he belongs,” Douggie exclaims. He lifts the piece of meat from his lap, and gnaws tenderly on the edges with his toothless gums. “An eternity of damnation would not be enough for his soul.”
“What happened to him?” I ask, and again a cloak of silence descends upon the room.
“Got what he had coming, the filthy old bugger. But, alas, he left the world the parting gift of his flesh. The rats upon the island never ate so well. He hung himself from the light fixture in his stairwell and gave the vermin a hearty feast. The housekeeper found him hanging; been there for weeks. The devil left his kitty to starve.” He follows this comment with a strangling sound, spits something into his napkin, and lets out a shrill peel of laugher, sending a spew of phlegm out onto the table.
He turns to Ramey and says in a tone reserved for a father about to administer a stern punishment to his son. “Why did you put this lovely girl in that death trap?”
“We thought it would be a nice place for Alexandra to stay with her son,” Ruth says. “Our house is full, you know with the six...” she pauses, and her face seems to drain of all color before she resumes in a shallow voice, “the five children and the two nannies.”
Douggie slams his hand down on the table. “I’m talking to your husband, dear,” he proclaims.
Ramey leans back in his chair and eyes him intently. “What are you getting at, Douggie?”
“I hear he willed you the property.”
“Schlotter had a debt to pay, so I took the house. He squandered his assets before he died.”
“The island is a native burial site, you know. Those Injuns have long memories. The spirits remain until the bones have disintegrated. You own desecrated land, young man. I lived with the Mayan natives for thirty years; I know what I’m talking about.” He puts down his forkful of meat and takes another gulp of wine.
The House on Black Lake Page 9