“Had not been in either time. Nor had anyone else in the time between when I noticed it and when I’d last watched it from outside.”
“No one else that you knew of.”
“No one at all. I could have told if there’d been a breakin. Besides, a burglar would have stolen the darn thing.”
Russ smoothed his mustache thoughtfully. Stryker was scribbling energetically on his notepad.
Gayle pressed home her advantage. “I asked Cass about it once. She looked at me funny and said they used to keep their TV on the hearth, too—only over a foot or so, because the furniture was arranged differently.”
Stryker’s grey eyes seemed to glow beneath his shaggy eyebrows. Russ knew the signs—Curtiss was on the scent.
Trying to control his own interest, Russ asked: “Cass is still in Knoxville, then?”
Gayle appeared annoyed with herself. “Yes, that’s why I wanted to keep this confidential. She and another girl have set up together in an old farmhouse they’ve redone—out towards Norris.”
“There’s no need for me to mention names or details of personal life,” Curtiss reassured her. “But I take it you’ve said something to Cass about these happenings?”
“Well, yes. She had a few things stored out in the garden shed that she finally came over to pick up. Most of the furnishings were jointly owned—I bought them with the house—but there was some personal property, items I didn’t want.” She said the last with a nervous grimace.
“So I came flat out and said to her: ‘Cass, did you ever think this house was haunted?’ and she looked at me and said quite seriously: ‘Libby?’”
“She didn’t seem incredulous?”
“No. Just like that, She said: ‘Libby?’ Didn’t sound surprised—a little shaken maybe. I told her about some of the things here, and she just shrugged. I didn’t need her to think I was out of my mind, so I left off. But that’s when I started to think about Libby’s spirit lingering on here.”
“She seemed to take it rather matter-of-factly.” Russ suggested.
“I think she and Libby liked to dabble in the occult. There were a few books of that sort that Cass picked up—a Ouija board, tarot deck, black candles, a few other things like that. And I believe there was something said about Libby’s dying on April the 30th—that’s Walpurgis Night, I learned from my reading.”
Witches’ Sabbath, Russ reflected. So he was going to find his Gothic trappings after all.
It must have showed on his face. “Nothing sinister about her death,” Gayle told him quickly. “Sordid maybe, but thoroughly prosaic. She was dead by the time they got her to the emergency room, and a check of her bloodstream showed toxic levels of alcohol and barbs. Took a little prying to get the facts on that. Family likes the version where she died of a heart attack or something while the doctors worked over her.
“But let me freshen those ice cubes for you. This show-and-tell session is murder on the throat.”
Stryker hopped out of his chair. “Here, we’ll carry our own glasses.”
Smiling, she led them into the kitchen. Russ lagged behind to work at the cheese. He hadn’t taken time for lunch, and he thought he’d better put something in his stomach besides bourbon.
“There’s another thing,” Gayle was saying when he joined them. “The antique clocks.”
Russ followed her gesture. The ornate dial of a pendulum wall clock stared back at him from the dining room wall. He remembered the huge walnut grandfather’s clock striking solemnly in the corner of the living room.
“Came back one night and found both cabinets wide open. And you have to turn a key to open the cabinets.”
“Like this?” Stryker demonstrated on the wall clock.
“Yes. I keep the keys in the locks because I need to reset the pendulum weights. But as you see, it takes a sharp twist to turn the lock. Explain that one for me.”
Russ sipped his drink. She must have poured him a good double. “Have you ever thought that someone might have a duplicate key to one of the doors?” he asked.
“Yes,” Gayle answered, following his train of thought. “That occurred to me some time ago—though God knows what reason there might be to pull stunts like these. But I had every lock in the house changed—that was after I had come back and found lights on or off that had been left off or on one time too many to call it absentmindedness. It made no difference, and both the TV and the clock incidents took place since then.”
“You know, this is really intriguing!” Curtiss exclaimed, beaming over his notepad.
Gayle smiled back, seemed to be fully at ease for the first time. “Well, I’ll tell you it had me baffled. Here, let me show you the rest of the house.”
A hallway led off from the open space between living room and dining area. There was a study off one side, another room beyond, and two bedrooms opposite. A rather large tile bath with sunken tub opened at the far end.
“The study’s a mess, I’m afraid,” she apologized, closing the door on an agreeably unkempt room that seemed chiefly cluttered with fashion magazines and bits of dress material. “And the spare bedroom I only use for storage.” She indicated the adjoining room, but did not offer to open it. “My son sleeps here when he’s home.”
“You keep it locked?” Russ asked, noting the outdoor-type lock.
“No.” Gayle hastily turned the knob for them, opened the door on a room cluttered with far more of the same as her study. There was a chain lock inside, another door on the outside wall. “As you see, this room has a private entrance. This is the room they rented out.”
“Their boarder must have felt threatened,” Russ remarked. He received a frown that made him regret his levity.
“These are the bedrooms.” She turned to the hallway opposite. “This was Cass’s.” A rather masculine room with knotty pine paneling, a large brass bed, cherry furnishings, and an oriental throw rug on the hardwood floor. “And this was Libby’s.” Blue walls, white ceiling, white deep-pile carpet, queen-sized bed with a blue quilted spread touching the floor on three sides. In both rooms, sliding glass doors opened onto the backyard.
“Where do you sleep?” Russ wanted to know.
“In the other bedroom. I find this one a bit too frilly.”
“Have you ever, well, seen anything—any sort of, say, spiritual manifestations?” Stryker asked.
“Myself, no,” Gayle told them. “Though there are a few things. My niece was staying with me one night not long after I’d moved in— sleeping in Libby’s room. Next morning she said to me, ‘Gayle, that room is haunted. All night I kept waking up thinking someone else was there with me.’ I laughed, but she was serious.”
‘‘Is that when you started thinking in terms of ghosts?”
“Well, there had been a few things before that,” she admitted. “But I suppose that was when I really started noticing things.”
Russ chalked up a point for his side.
“But another time a friend of mine dropped by to visit. I was out of town, so no one answered her ring. Anyway, she heard voices and figured I was in back watching TV with the set drowning out the doorbell. So she walked around back. I wasn’t here, of course. No one was here. And when she looked inside from the patio, she could see that my set was turned off. She was rather puzzled when she told me about it. I told her a radio was left on—only that wasn’t true.”
“The dog ever act strangely?” Stryker asked.
“Not really. A few times she seems a little nervous is all. She’s a good watchdog though—barks at strangers. That’s one reason why I don’t suspect prowlers. Prissy lets me know when something’s going on that she doesn’t like.
“Aside from that, the only other thing I can think of is one night when my son was here alone. I got back late and he was sitting in the living room awake. Said he’d seen a sort of blue mist taking shape in the darkness of his bedroom—like a naked woman. Well, the only mist was the smoke you could still smell from the pot party he and his friends had had here earlier. We
had a long talk about that little matter.”
Stryker studied his notepad. “I’d like to suggest a minor experiment of sorts, if you don’t mind. I’d like for Russ and myself to take a turn just sitting alone in Libby’s room for a few minutes. See what impressions we have—if any.”
“I’ll take first watch,” Russ decided, at their hostess’s expression of consent.
Curtiss shot him a warning glance and returned with Gayle to the living room.
Waiting until they were around the corner, Mandarin stepped into the room now occupied by Gayle Corrington. Cass’s room. There was a scent of perfume and such, a soft aura of femininity that he hadn’t noticed from the hallway. It softened the masculine feel of the room somewhat, gave it sort of a ski lodge atmosphere. The bedroom had the look of having been recently straightened for company’s inspection. As was the case. There were crescent scratches about three feet up on the corner paneling next to the head of the bed, and Russ guessed that the pump shotgun did not usually hang from brackets on the bedroom wall as it did now.
The bathroom was out of Nero’s mountain retreat. Big enough to play tennis in, with synthetic fur rugs scattered on the slate-tiled floor, and with a dressing table and elaborate toilet fixtures that matched the tiles and included a bidet. A cross between a boudoir and the Roman baths. The sunken tub was a round affair and like an indoor pool. Russ wondered if the mirror on the ceiling fogged up when things got hot.
Swallowing the rest of his drink, he stepped into the guest room. Libby’s room. This would, of course, be the Blue Room in one of those sprawling mansions where pulp mysteries had a habit of placing their murders. Come to think of it, hadn’t he seen an old ‘30s movie called something like The Secret of the Blue Room?
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he crunched an ice cube and studied the room about him. Very feminine—though the brightness of the patio outside kept it from becoming cloying. It had a comfortable feel about it, he decided—not the disused sensation that generally hangs over a guest room. There was just a hint of perfume still lingering— probably Gayle kept clothes in the closet here.
Russ resisted the temptation to lie down. Glancing outside, he reflected that, when drawn, the blue curtains would fill the room with blue light. Might be a point worth bringing up to Curtiss, in case the old fellow got too excited over ectoplasm and the like. Aside from that, Russ decided that the room was as thoroughly unhaunted as any bedroom he’d ever sat in.
Giving it up at length, he ambled back to the living room.
Stryker was just closing his notepad. Either he’d got another drink, or else he’d been too interested to do more than sip his gin and tonic. At Mandarin’s entry, he excused himself and strode off for the bedroom.
Gayle’s face was a trifle flushed, her manner somewhat nervous. Russ wondered whether it was the liquor, or if he’d broken in on something. She had that familiar edgy look of a patient after an hour of soul-bearing on the analyst’s couch. As he thought about it, Russ agreed that this interview must be a similar strain for her.
“You’ve eaten your ice cubes,” she observed. “Shall I get you another?”
Russ swallowed a mouthful of salted nuts. “Thank you—but I’ve got to drive.”
She made a wry face. “You look big enough to hold another few. A light one, then?”
“Hell, why not. A. light one, please.” Probably she would feel more at ease if she supposed his psychiatric powers were disarmed by bourbon.
He paced about the living room while she saw to his glass. Coming to the fireplace, he studied the beautifully engraved shotgun that hung there. It was a Parker. Russ started to touch it.
“That’s loaded.”
He jerked back his hand like a scolded kid. “Sorry. Just wanted to get the feel of an engraved Parker double-barrel. That’s some gun you have to decorate your fireplace with.”
“Thank you. I know.” She handed him his drink.
“Don’t you worry about keeping a loaded shotgun in your living room?” The drink was at least equal to its predecessors.
“I’d worry more with an empty one. I’m alone here at night, and there aren’t many neighbors. Besides, there aren’t any kids around who might get in trouble with it.”
“I’d think a woman would prefer something easier to handle than a shotgun.”
“Come out on the skeet range with me sometime, and I’ll show you something.”
Mandarin must have looked properly chastened. With a quick grin Gayle drew down the weapon, opened the breech, and extracted two red shells. “Here.” She handed the shotgun to him.
“Double ought,” Russ observed, closing the breech.
“It’s not for shooting starlings.”
He sighted along the barrel a few times, gave it back. Briskly she replaced the shells and returned it to its mounting.
“Might I ask what you do, Mrs. Corrington?”
“Gayle. I assume you mean for a living. I own and manage a mixed bag of fashion stores—two here in Knoxville, plus a resort-wear shop in Gatlinburg, and a boutique on the Strip by the University. So you see, Doctor, not all working girls fall into the nurse or secretary system of things.”
“Russ. No, of course not. Some of them make excellent psychiatrists.”
She softened again. “Sorry for coming on strong for women’s lib. Just that you find yourself a little defensive after being questioned for an hour.”
“Sorry about that.” Russ decided not to remind her that this was at her own invitation. “But this has been extremely interesting, and Curtiss is like a bloodhound on a fresh trail.
“But how do you feel about this, Gayle? Do you believe a poltergeist or some sort of spirit has attached itself to the house?”
She gave him a freckled frown and shrugged her shoulders. No, Russ concluded, she wasn’t wearing some sort of backless bra beneath her gown—not that she needed one.
“Well, I can’t really say. I mean, there’s just been so many things happening that I can’t explain. No, I don’t believe in witches and vampires and ghosts all draped in bedsheets, if that’s what you mean. But some of the books I’ve read explain poltergeists on an ESP basis— telekinesis or something on that order.”
“Do you believe in ESP?”
“Yes, to an extent.”
“Do you consider yourself psychic?”
She did the thing with her shoulders again. “A little maybe. I’ve had a few experiences that are what the books put down as psychic phenomena. I guess most of us have. But now it’s my turn. What do you think, Russ? Do you believe in ghosts?”
“Well, not the chain-rattling kind anyway.”
“Then ESP?”
“Yes, I’ll have to admit to a weakness towards ESP”
“Then here’s to ESP”
They clinked glasses and drank.
“I’ll second that,” announced Stryker, rejoining them.
*
III
“Jesus!” Stryker swore. “Slow down, Russ!” He braced himself with one hand against the dash, almost slung out of his bucket seat as the Jensen took a curve at 70.
“Use the seat belt,” advised Mandarin, slowing down somewhat. After all, he was a little high to be pushing the car this hard.
“Don’t like them,” Curtiss grunted. “The harnesses make me claustrophobic.”
“They say they’re someday going to pass a law making it compulsory to wear them.”
“Like to see them try—we’re not to 1984 yet! Why don’t the prying bastards work to prevent accidents instead of putting all their bright ideas into ways of letting the damn fools who cause them live through it. And speaking of prevention, how about slowing this sports car down to legal velocities. The cops would sure like to nail you on a drunk driving charge.”
“Who’s drunk?” Russ slowed to 65, the legal limit for non-interstate highways.
“Son, you had a few before you picked me up this noon—and Gayle Corrington wasn’t running up her water bill on
those drinks she poured for us.”
Russ veered from the ragged shoulder of the old two-lane blacktop. “If she starts the day customarily with drinks like she was pouring for me, I think I know where her poltergeist comes from.”
“You weren’t impressed?” Stryker sounded amused. “But you’ll admit natural explanations get a little forced and tenuous after a while.”
A stop sign bobbed over the crest of a hill, and Russ hit the brakes hard. Four disc brakes brought the Jensen up almost in its length. Stryker uncovered his eyes.
“Yeah,” Russ went on. “There were a number of damned things she said that sounded like telling points in favor of a poltergeist. But you have to bear in mind that all this is by her unsupported evidence. Hell, we can’t be sure she isn’t hallucinating this stuff, or even just making the whole thing up to string you along. Women do get bored at forty-ish—to say nothing of what the thought of starting over the hill does to their libidos.”
“She didn’t look bored—and certainly not headed over the hill. Another few years, my friend, and you’ll stop thinking of womanhood withering at thirty. Hell, it’s just starting to bloom. But do you think she’s unreliable? Seemed to be just the opposite. A level-headed woman who was frankly baffled and a little embarrassed with the entire affair.”
Russ grunted, unwilling to agree offhand—though these were his own impressions as well. “I’m just saying you need to keep everything in perspective, I’ve gotten fooled by too many patients with a smooth facade—even when I was expecting things to be different beneath the surface.”
“But you’ll hazard an opinion that Mrs. Corrington is playing straight with us, so far as signs indicate?” Stryker persisted.
“Yeah,” Mandarin conceded. “But that’s one tough woman lurking beneath all that sweet southern-belle charm she knows how to turn on. Watch out.”
He turned onto the interstate leading into Knoxville’s downtown. In deference to Curtiss’s uneasiness with high speed, he held the needle at 80, safely just over the 75 limit of the time.
“What’s your opinion of it all, then?” the author prodded.
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