When Emmalynn Remembers

by Jennifer Wilde

  “Em, you can’t blame yourself,” Billie protested gently.

  “I do, though. Dr. Clarkson believes that’s partly the cause of my amnesia. The shock of seeing it happen was terrible, of course, and the thought that it might never have happened if I’d been there caused me to black it out of my mind. The shock and the guilt feelings were too much to bear.”

  “If you’d stayed, you might have been murdered yourself.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

  “It amazes me that you can be so calm about it.”

  “I—it’s not easy,” I replied.

  I got up from the sofa and walked over to the window. I pulled back the dusty green curtain and looked out at the foggy night. I could see the colored lights from the dance hall glowing through the mist, and even from this distance I could hear the sound of music, muffled, dim. Billie sensed my apprehension. She came to stand beside me.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I feel like such a fool—”

  “Don’t,” I whispered.

  I took her hand and forced myself to smile, but the smile trembled on my lips. “Don’t,” I repeated. “I owe you so much—you and Clive and Dr. Clarkson. You’ve helped me to a new life, bright and exciting and full of noise, full of promise. It’s—so wonderful, after so many years of being dependent on someone else. I’ve got to protect that new life, and the only way I can protect it is to stop running away, mentally as well as physically. Going back there is going to be hard, and yes, I’m afraid, but I know it’s something I’ve got to do.”

  “Of course,” Billie said, her voice very quiet. Her enormous brown eyes were sad and full of understanding, and I smiled again, a much brighter smile.

  “Let’s keep it light—” I said, moving away from the window and going to put a record on the phonograph. “We’ll go to Brighton and look over the house and decide whether or not I want to sell it—but not to Gordon, of course—and we’ll swim and relax and you can finish your Dostoyevsky, and in a few days we’ll come back, both tanned, both ready to set London on its ear!”

  Billie grinned, glad that the awkward moment was over.

  “That’s the spirit!” she exclaimed. “I do think you should buy a bikini, though, Em. It’s a shame, with your figure, too.…”

  The phonograph started playing, much too loudly, and the doorbell rang and a man who looked like Jean Paul Belmondo came in with a set of bongo drums. He sat down in a corner and began to beat them in time to the music, and the doorbell rang again and the Todd twins came bursting in, both waving bottles of wine, both fierce looking with burning black eyes and shaggy black hair. In thirty minutes the room was jammed with people, people who shouted and laughed and filled the air with smoke and boisterous revelry. I smiled and nodded and pretended I was enjoying myself while Billie cavorted and danced. More people came, and some fashion designer was swirling bolts of violently colored material across the room, and someone else was draping them over all the furniture, and everyone laughed, everyone smiled, and all the while I was dreading the morning and the trip I knew I must take into my so recent past.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE AIR WAS strongly laced with a salty tang, and the waves washed over the gray shingles with a monotonous rhythm, leaving behind a residue of seaweed and foam. We had passed the town and were driving down a treacherous dirt road that would lead to the Stern place. It was an isolated spot, and the road wound through heavily wooded areas. We could catch occasional glimpses of the sea through open spaces, but there was no sign of a house, no sign that anyone lived in this bleak, desolate stretch.

  “I thought it would at least be civilized,” Billie remarked testily. “When one says Brighton one visualizes a glamorous resort town crowded with tourists and expensive little shops. This isn’t Brighton.”

  The car shot over a particularly nasty jolt in the road, and I gripped the steering wheel tightly. Clive had loaned us his car for the trip and I didn’t want to return it to him with a broken spring.

  “I think you’re hopelessly lost, Em, to be perfectly honest about it. I’ve got such a headache, and here we are in the middle of nowhere—”

  The road smoothed out, and we passed clumps of more formal trees, interspersed with shrubbery. Suddenly the trees were behind us and we were on a broad road that ran directly beside the sea. The sunlight was dazzling on the water, making silvery patterns on the gray, and the sky beyond was a soft green, misty on the horizon. Even Billie was silenced by the beauty of it. We passed an ancient cottage with the skeleton frame of an addition half built on one side, the yellow boards already beginning to weather. I saw an old boat overturned in the sand on the other side of the house, and ragged fishing nets stretched on poles near the water.

  A large red dog darted out from under the front steps of the cottage and barked at the car as we passed. A man stepped out to silence the dog, but there wasn’t time for me to get a good look at him. Billie said it must have been George Reed. She peered eagerly through the rear window, but he had already gone inside. She was extremely excited now, all her petulant disappointment gone. The road suddenly made a large curve, winding down to the sea. We passed through a heavily wooded area and, suddenly, the road ended, abruptly, and we were in front of the Stern house.

  We got out of the car, and neither of us said a word for a moment. We had seen photographs of the place, of course, but they had not prepared us for anything like this.

  “I refuse to believe it,” Billie said.

  “It’s—not too cheerful, is it?” I remarked.

  “The perfect place for a murder,” she whispered.

  The Stern place had been built at the turn of the century, and it must once have been both elegant and impressive with its turrets and gables and its large veranda, but now it was bleak and foreboding, a monstrosity of a place, the gray boards weather beaten and crusted with salt, the windows murky and dark, the blue shutters hanging loosely. It was two stories, and there were wings sprawling out on either side. A shaggy green lawn led down to a desolate beach, tall weeds growing among the white sand, and there was a large old boathouse at the water’s edge, its roof half collapsed, and a wooden pier that looked extremely dangerous. Woods grew thickly on three sides of the house, tall black trees with limbs tortured by the sea winds and twisted into grotesque shapes.

  I had a curious feeling as I stood there looking up at the house. Although the sun was shining brightly and the day was warm, I felt a chill. I seemed to hear barely audible whispers that warned me to turn back, and the dark recesses of the front veranda seemed to throng with invisible figures. There, right on the front porch, not ten feet away, a woman had been horribly murdered, and the whole house seemed to be permeated with a kind of evil that hung over it like a pall, dark, sinister. I considered myself a highly sensible person, not at all given to fancy, but I could not shake this sensation, no matter how hard I tried.

  “Well—” Billie said, her hands on her hips.

  “Do you—feel something, too?” I asked.

  “Scared,” she retorted.

  “But—it’s so ridiculous. I feel it, too.”

  “What shall we do?”

  “We could drive back to Brighton,” I suggested. “I—I’ll find a real estate agent and turn the house over to him to sell. We don’t have to stay here, you know.”

  “We’re grown women,” she said firmly.

  “I know.”

  “Not little children afraid of spooks.”

  “You’re right.”

  “It’s just a house, Emmalynn.”

  “Of course it is Just a—house.”

  “We have to be brave,” she replied flippantly. “Can you imagine how they would laugh back in London if we told them we were frightened so easily? I mean, the place probably has real charm—somewhere. It’s been deserted for six months. Any house would look dreary under those circumstances.”

  Billie walked boldly up the front steps and stood on the porch, turning around to en
courage me to follow. She wore a short shift of black and white squares, and her hair was completely hidden by a bright red turban, her eyes concealed by dark glasses. She lounged against the bannister, and it was exactly like one of those arty magazine layouts where wildly dressed models posed against incongruous backgrounds. I smiled at the thought, and some of my apprehension vanished.

  “We might as well make the most of it,” Billie said. She began to look for bloodstains while I fumbled in my purse for the key to the front door. I had just taken it out when we heard footsteps approaching. Billie seized my arm, and for a moment both of us were panic stricken.

  A man walked around the corner of the house, coming from somewhere in the back, and he strolled casually up to the steps and stood looking at us. He didn’t seem to be at all surprised or alarmed. He smiled. It was a dazzling smile, and the man was dazzlingly handsome by any standards. He wore a sleeveless sweat shirt and a pair of blue jeans with the pants cut off at the knees, the edges ragged. He was of medium height and powerfully built, with strong, muscular arms and immense shoulders, and his skin was bronzed by the sun. His hair was shaggy, curling about his neck and ears and falling in thick waves over his forehead, light brown and streaked with sun-bleached blond strands. His eyes were a very light blue, contrasting vividly with the dark complexion.

  “Emmalynn?” he said.

  I stared at him without recognition.

  “I am Emmalynn Rogers,” I said.

  He looked at me for a moment, the smile still curling on his wide sensual mouth. He jammed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and tilted his head to one side.

  “You don’t know me?” he asked.

  “Do I?”

  He grinned. “Then it’s true,” he said. “Dr. Clarkson wrote telling me to expect you, although he didn’t say what time of day. He told me about your—uh—amnesia. You really don’t know me?”

  “I’m sorry,” I replied.

  “Boyd,” he said, “Boyd Devlon. I worked for Mrs. Stern, taking care of the place, running errands, driving the Rolls when she wanted to go to town for something. I lived in the carriage house, and after the—after she died, the lawyers arranged for me to stay on as caretaker until such a time as the house was disposed of. Now that it’s yours, of course, I’m no longer officially employed, but I thought I’d better stay on a few days to see if you needed anything.”

  “Why—that was very thoughtful of you, Mr. Devlon.”

  “It used to be Boyd,” he said, his blue eyes full of amusement.

  “Did it?”

  “Indeed it did,” he replied.

  His voice was deep and husky, a warm, intimate voice. Boyd Devlon was one of those men who radiate an instant and instantly fascinating charm. He was rugged and virile and completely at ease with himself and the world. In his ragged clothes, with his shaggy hair he could have stepped into a drawing room and been as confident as he was as he stood at the bottom of the steps now. I wondered why Henrietta would have allowed such a man to work for her. She had clung to me possessively, and she had always been on guard against men who might attract me away from her. It would seem that a man like Boyd Devlon would have been the last person she would have wanted anywhere near me.

  Billie tugged at my arm impatiently.

  “Oh,” I said, “forgive me. May I introduce my friend Miss Mead, Mr. Devlon.”

  “Hello there,” Boyd Devlon said.

  “Enchanted,” Billie replied. “Absolutely.”

  Boyd Devlon grinned boyishly, pleased at her obvious admiration. Something about his manner suggested that he was accustomed to being admired by women and might even take it for granted. I supposed it was all part of his charm. Billie took off her sunglasses and toyed with them. A whole herd of wild horses couldn’t have turned her away from the house now.

  “How long do you intend to stay, Miss Rogers?” he asked, and I noticed that he used the more formal address this time.

  “Two or three days—perhaps a week. I want to inspect the house, get to know it. I’ll probably decide to sell it, but I want to look it over before I make any definite decision.”

  “It’s an intriguing old place,” he remarked.

  “Are all the rooms open?” I asked.

  “All the downstairs, and the bedrooms upstairs. Both wings are shut, the doors locked, the furniture covered in sheets—just like before. There are over thirty rooms, as you know.”

  “Are there?”

  “Not counting the attics and the cellar.”

  “You’re living in the carriage house?”

  “There’s an apartment over it. I’m staying there.”

  “I’d like very much for you to stay, Mr. Devlon. It’s rather—isolated here and—there’ll probably be a lot of things you can do for us. If you wish, you can consider yourself on salary again until we leave.”

  “Fine,” he replied, nodding. “I’ll start by bringing your suitcases inside.”

  I unlocked the front door and Billie and I stepped into a vast hallway with a staircase at the other end that curled up to the second floor. There was barely enough light coming through the opened door to reveal atrocious blue and violet wallpaper and ponderous black oak furniture arranged along the wall. The carpet was dark burgundy and a dusty chandelier hung from the ceiling, veiled with cobwebs. A strong odor of mildew and decay filled the air, a sour smell that was extremely unpleasant.

  Boyd Devlon came in with the suitcases and set them down by the door. He stood with his hands resting lightly on his thighs.

  “I’m afraid there’s no electricity,” he informed us. “They cut it off months ago—telephone, too, I’m afraid. You can have them turned back on, of course, but it’ll take a few days. In the meantime, you’ll have to use candles and oil lamps. There are plenty of both around.”

  “No electricity?” I said.

  “I’ve always adored candlelight,” Billie remarked.

  “There’s an old gas stove in the kitchen, and a butane tank, so cooking will be no problem.”

  We stood in the hall for a moment, all three silent. The house seemed to surround us, engulf us. It seemed to have a life of its own, and I tried once again to shake the curious sensation of dread. Boyd Devlon was silhouetted against the doorway, strong, male, a comforting presence at the moment. A ray of sunlight slanted through the door and touched his head. His sun-bleached brown hair glistened, and his bronzed skin seemed to gleam. I was very glad Billie and I were not going to be completely alone here. The house was sinister enough in mid-afternoon, and I could imagine how it must seem when darkness fell.

  “Would you like me to go for groceries?” he inquired. “You’ll need supplies if you intend to stay for a few days.”

  “Yes,” I replied. “I could make a list, I suppose—or, better yet, you just get whatever you think we’ll need for tonight and breakfast in the morning, and I’ll go myself tomorrow and get anything else.”

  I gave him my car keys and took out some money, but he refused to take the money, saying he would charge the groceries from Widow Murphy who had a grocery store down the beach that all the people in this area patronized. I asked him about running water and was relieved to find that the house still had it. He told us how to find the bedrooms and then left, strolling across the porch and down the steps. We heard him start the car and drive off. We exchanged looks there in the dimly lighted hall.

  “Well?” I said.

  “No man should be that good looking,” Billie replied. “It’s criminal. He knows you, Em. Did you see how friendly he was at first, like there’d been something between you?”

  “You imagined it,” I said.

  She shook her head. “No, I didn’t. That smile—and he said you used to call him Boyd. Oh, Em—how maddening to think you might have had a love affair you can’t remember—”

  “It’s highly unlikely,” I replied. “Henrietta would never have permitted it, and—I’m not much for love affairs, particularly with men who look like Boyd Devlon.�
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  “You said you must have quarreled with her about something out of the ordinary—something violent enough to make you leave her. Can’t you see—you’d been having a love affair with Boyd Devlon and she found out about it and threatened to fire him, and you said it was your life and you’d never give him up, and—”

  “You also see too many cheap movies,” I replied firmly.

  “It could have happened,” Billie insisted.

  “Not to me, and I know I could never be seriously attracted to a man like Boyd Devlon—he’s too good-looking, too confident. There’s something about him—”

  “Magnetism,” she said.

  “No, something else. I—I can’t quite place it. Don’t you think it odd that a man like him would be content to work for a cantankerous old woman and then be caretaker of crumbling old seaside estate? Caretakers are usually decrepit old men who can’t do anything else. Boyd Devlon could do anything he wanted. Certainly he could do better than this—”

  “Maybe he has a past—” she suggested.

  “Oh, Billie—”

  “Or maybe the life suits him,” Billie protested. “Some men don’t want to waste their lives chasing after money and status. Other things are more important to them. He’s the outdoor type—that glorious tan, like a bronze Apollo! Maybe he simply wants to be free. I can’t visualize him juggling stocks and bonds or scraping and bowing in diplomatic circles. He’s an individual—does as he pleases, dresses as he pleases, thumbs his nose at the rest of the world. I think it’s terribly romantic.”

  “You would think that.”

  “Seriously, Em, you did know him. I can’t help but wonder how well—”

  “I suppose we’ll find out sooner or later.”

  “Yes—” She looked around at the vast hall, examining the wall paper and inspecting the ornately carved black oak furniture. “You don’t remember any of this?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  “I can’t get over it. You lived here for almost half a year, and you didn’t even know where the bedrooms were. He had to tell you. This place is weird, Em. It’s creepy. Just think, right out there on the porch—” She cut herself off abruptly, and we stared at each other.