Dark Homecoming

by William Patterson

  A scandal that might even ruin David financially, if it appeared he covered up a murder in his house.

  Maybe he’d even go to jail . . .

  Rita walked out into the corridor carrying the sheets in her arms and wearing a smile that stretched across the entire width of her pretty face.

  “What’s got you in such a cheery mood?” Mrs. Hoffman asked her when she saw her.

  “It’s such a beautiful day,” Rita responded, “why shouldn’t I be smiling?”

  And she went on smiling for the rest of the day.

  35

  Liz held tight to David’s arm as they made their way into Roger’s crowded gallery. The Naomi Collins opening gala appeared to be a great success: the room was packed with people, so full that Liz could barely see the art on the walls—which, having seen it before, she really didn’t mind. David seemed to know everyone there. From the moment they arrived he was stopped, greeted, embraced, and enthused over. “David, how good it is to see you!” “David, I’m so delighted you’ve come!” “David, you look marvelous!” A mass of floating faces—men, women, mostly old, all obviously wealthy—overwhelmed Liz. Usually David introduced her—“This is my wife, Liz”—whereupon the eyes of Palm Beach society briefly studied her before offering a tepid “How nice to meet you” or “I’ve heard so much about you.” Liz wondered what they had heard, and from whom. Their names she tried to commit to memory but they all quickly blurred together. She and David did not pause to talk with anyone; they just kept pushing through the crowd, Liz clutching on to her husband as if for dear life. Where they were going, Liz wasn’t sure. She just let David lead the way.

  A harpist was playing at the back of the gallery; the soft music lilted through the dull roar of milling conversations. Given how hot the evening was, most everyone, Liz and David included, was dressed in beige or tan linen; temperatures were still in the nineties. But the occasional red dress stood out from among the crowd. Everywhere Liz went, eyes seemed to follow her: there she is, David’s wife, how different she is from Dominique. Liz tried not to meet their gazes, keeping her eyes on the back of David’s head as they pushed through the mob.

  He was, thankfully, once again the man she had married, the man she had fallen in love with. How good, how considerate, he had been to her this past week. There had been very few business calls, and plenty of time together, lounging at the pool, taking walks on the beach, sharing candlelit dinners, just the two of them. And he had made love to her with such skill, such tenderness, that Liz thought she would never again know such bliss. “We’re still newlyweds,” he’d reminded her, quoting his brother. That they were.

  A couple of times, lying in his arms after sex, Liz had carefully ventured into areas she knew David was not comfortable speaking about. But he hadn’t pushed her away.

  “I wish you had told me more about Dominique, and about the unhappiness here at Huntington House,” she’d said softly one night.

  “I’m sorry. I should have. I’m sorry I let the servants fill your head with their stories . . .”

  “Did Dominique really practice witchcraft?”

  “Oh, she and Variola were always brewing something up . . . island mumbo jumbo . . . but I suppose it was really nothing more than herbs and flower remedies.”

  “Sometimes,” Liz said, almost dreamily, “I smell gardenias. I know that was Dominique’s scent. I smell it sometimes . . . even when no one’s around.”

  “Liz, you’re too smart to believe such things.”

  “But I’ve been frightened, David.” She hesitated. “I thought I saw something the other day.”

  He looked over at her sharply. “What did you think you saw?”

  “A horrible woman . . . a terrible face. Dressed in an old robe, prowling around the sculpture garden.”

  He had sighed. “We’ve had some problem with vagabonds getting onto the estate. There’s an area where the wall is fairly easy to scale. I’ll have Thad keep an eye out.”

  Liz supposed that could have been the case. She remained convinced that she had seen someone that day. She’d never questioned Thad to find out what, if anything, he had discovered after Roger told him about the trespassing woman. She hadn’t wanted to hear more talk of witches and ghosts. Surely Thad, with all his superstitions, would claim it was Dominique, back from the dead.

  “It’s just all been very strange, David,” Liz said. “The fragrances . . . the sound of footsteps coming from a place I can’t pinpoint . . . from behind the walls . . .”

  He took her gently by the shoulders. “It’s my fault, darling. I should have told you more before I left, instead of letting your imagination run wild.”

  “So tell me now,” Liz had said. “Tell me about Dominique.”

  David had leaned back against the pillows. “I was very much in love with her once,” he said. “But then . . .”

  Liz had waited, wondering what he might say.

  “The love didn’t last,” David finished. He went quiet. That was all he was willing to say.

  “Why didn’t it last, David?” Liz asked.

  “I don’t want to talk about the past.” David had sat up at that point, pulling Liz close to him. “I now have a wife whom I love very much. Can’t we just focus on the future?”

  She had murmured her consent and let the conversation end there. It wouldn’t do to harass him. He would just clam up again.

  But another night, after another round of tender lovemaking, Liz had tried once more to discover her husband’s secrets.

  “Why didn’t your brother like Dominique?” she’d asked.

  David had lifted one eye up to her. “He didn’t tell you on one of your outings?”

  “He just said that Dominique wasn’t always the nicest person.” She began tracing David’s face with her forefinger. “Yet clearly he’d been fond of her at one point—after all, he painted the portrait of her that was hanging in the stairwell.”

  “Oh, yes,” David said, closing his eyes. “He painted the portrait. That he did.”

  “I can tell that Mrs. Hoffman doesn’t care for Roger. Given how close she was to Dominique, I can’t help but wonder why . . .”

  “You’ll have to ask her then. What went on between Dominique and Mrs. Hoffman, I never much delved into. It seemed every time they came home from a trip into town they had more plastic in their cheeks and their lips had turned into suction cups.”

  Liz smiled. “She’s quite the sight, isn’t she, Mrs. Hoffman? Does she actually think all that work has made her look younger?”

  “She was encouraged in it by Dominique. It all started the day Dominique turned thirty. She was desperately scared of getting old. That was when she hired Variola, and began taking all her potions and treatments.” He laughed lightly. “That’s what their witchcraft, if you can call it that, was all about. Keeping Dominique young.”

  “Thirty isn’t old,” Liz said.

  “I hope you still think so when you get there,” David said, opening his eyes and looking up at her. “There’s too much focus around here on looking young. Such a premium placed on youth. Don’t listen when Mrs. Hoffman starts in on how you look, or someone else looks.”

  “She can be very hard,” Liz acknowledged, remembering the day by the pool when she’d placed Dominique’s photo beside her.

  “Hoffman’s a strange old bird, but she knows this house better than anyone. She’s been here since my parents ran the place. Just let her do her thing, darling, keeping the house running, while you carry on with your own life. Don’t let her get you down.”

  “I just don’t understand why she doesn’t like Roger . . .”

  “I told you, Liz. My brother is a troublemaker.”

  “Is that why you said he lived far away?”

  “I said we lived in different worlds. You took me literally.”

  “Well, all I know is, he was very kind and sweet to me.”

  “Yes, so he could get under my skin, and make me feel guilty for leaving you, w
hich I do.” David pulled her close and kissed her. It made Liz think of the kiss Roger had given her—and made her feel all the more troubled by it now.

  “All my life,” David went on, “Roger has been jealous of me. He always felt I was Dad’s favorite. If I was, it’s because I didn’t get in trouble. I applied myself. I went to school and joined the family business. I made Dad proud. Roger hung out with musicians and artists and got himself arrested for marijuana possession any number of times.”

  “When was this?”

  “Back when he was a kid.”

  “David, I’m not going to judge anybody for smoking pot, especially when they were kids . . .”

  “But he’s still underhanded, darling. I’m sure of it. Where does he get his money? Dad’s given him nothing except his house, and Roger still manages to live like a king. Fancy cars, elegant parties . . .”

  “His gallery has become very successful,” Liz said.

  “You mean to tell me he makes that much money selling weird art?” He shook his head. “How he’s ever managed to hoodwink people like Mrs. Delacorte and Mrs. Merriwell, I have no idea. These ladies are pillars of society. My mother’s friends. And they’re buying junk from my brother.”

  “He’s a good salesman,” Liz said. “Nothing wrong in that. And maybe he’s right. Maybe we just don’t get ‘art.’ ”

  She was suddenly yanked out of the memory by the sudden burst of applause from the crowd all around her. She looked around Roger’s gallery. Everyone was turning to look at something.

  David stopped walking. “Shit,” he grumbled. “I was hoping to get to some private corner before they started all this.”

  “May I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen?” The voice was Roger’s. He had hopped up onto a chair to get the crowd to stop talking. “I’d like to introduce our artist.”

  Catching Liz’s eye, he gave her a little smile before going on with his announcement.

  “Tonight I am thrilled to have Naomi Collins with us, a brilliant new force in the art world, someone who challenges our notions of beauty and power and faith.”

  The crowd parted to reveal a tall woman with short black hair, a shiny helmet with bangs cut straight across her forehead that made her look like that old silent movie star—what was her name? Louise Brooks, Liz thought. Naomi Collins was wearing a bright red dress, and she’d joined Roger up on a chair, offering a small, bashful wave to the assemblage. Liz clapped her hands along with everyone else. She noticed that David did not.

  Roger was going on about what Collins meant to the art world—how she was pushing boundaries and changing definitions—but Liz tuned him out as she looked around at the crowd. They all looked so chic and fashionable and very, very rich. Watching Roger intently was Mrs. Delacorte, and Liz noticed several other well-dressed ladies of a certain age hanging on his every word. Occasionally one of them would glance over at Liz. She saw the disapproval in their eyes. Really, they seemed to be thinking, that little mouse has married a Huntington?

  “Will you look at that?” David whispered to her. “Nearly every painting has a red dot next to it.”

  “What do the red dots mean?”

  “They’ve been sold. And look at the prices. Ten, fifteen, thirty thousand dollars! Jesus, my brother’s made a fortune tonight.”

  Roger had finished speaking. Naomi Collins was thanking the crowd for coming. Then there was another round of applause and everyone went back to milling about and sipping wine. David took Liz’s elbow and guided her over to a corner, whispering to her that they’d made an appearance and now they could leave. But just at that moment he was approached by a tall older man with a short clipped white beard and deep-set green eyes who started talking about stocks and bonds, and Liz knew they wouldn’t be leaving quite yet. David sighed and introduced the man to her as Paul Delacorte. “Paul’s on our board of directors,” David explained.

  “Oh,” Liz said, shaking the man’s hand. “I believe I’ve already met your wife.”

  “Delighted to meet you, Liz,” Mr. Delacorte said as his creepy green eyes looked her over. His wife had been condescending to her, but Delacorte was an old lech as he appraised Liz up and down. She even saw the tip of his tongue slither out from between his lips for a second, like a snake.

  She was about to slink off and grab a glass of wine when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned around. It was Roger.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said to her.

  “What a successful event,” she said. “Congratulations, Roger.”

  He smiled. “This is the first time my brother has ever been to my gallery. That’s your doing, Liz, and I’m grateful.”

  “You’re coming to our dinner party next week, aren’t you?”

  “Actually, I’m afraid I . . .” His voice wavered. “Unfortunately, I have a conflict. A previous engagement. But thank you for inviting me.”

  “It’s David, isn’t it? You think David doesn’t want you there.”

  “No, Liz, I’m telling you the truth. I have to be somewhere else.”

  She frowned. “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe you. Look, David came tonight. I want the two of you to be friends.”

  “Perhaps you and I being friends is the best we can hope for.”

  She felt a twinge of missing him. How much fun they’d had. How much of a savior Roger had been when Liz had been feeling her lowest.

  “I told David I wanted you at the party. He didn’t object. Besides, your parents are flying down from New York.”

  Roger smirked. “That’s hardly an enticement to get me there, Liz.”

  “I could use the moral support meeting them myself.”

  “I’d love to support you, Liz, but I simply have a conflict I can’t break.”

  Liz looked at him. “It’s not David, is it? It’s me.”

  She saw the confirmation in his eyes. She remembered their kiss. Did Roger have feelings for her that he worried might complicate things?

  “We’re friends, Liz,” Roger said, smiling kindly at her. “Let’s be happy about that.”

  At that moment, David stepped up, slipping his arm around Liz’s waist.

  “Well, Roger,” he said, “quite the show you put on.”

  “I’m pleased you came, David.”

  “And just as I feared, I’m cornered about business wherever I go.” He nodded in Paul Delacorte’s direction. “You’ll understand if we duck out.”

  “That’s why I decided not to go the corporate route all those years ago,” Roger replied. “Seems you’re never off the clock.”

  “Given the money you raked in here tonight, I’d say you made a wise choice,” David said. “Sorry you can’t make our dinner party.”

  Liz looked up at him. So David already knew that Roger wouldn’t be coming.

  “I’m still hopeful you can change your appointment and come,” Liz said. “I’ll see to it that we leave a place open for you. Show up even at the last minute if you’d like.”

  She saw the frown that slipped across David’s face at her words.

  “You are too kind, sister-in-law. But that would throw off Mrs. Hoffman’s seating plans, I’m sure.”

  Liz snorted. “If Mrs. Hoffman thinks she’s organizing my dinner party, she’s got another thing coming.”

  “Come on, Liz,” David said, nudging her forward. “It’s time we went home.”

  “Thank you both again for coming,” Roger said.

  “Congratulations again on such a successful show,” Liz told him.

  He smiled. Liz and David made their way through the crowd. When Liz turned around just before they left the gallery, she saw Roger still standing where they’d left him across the room, still looking after her.

  36

  Variola had known this moment would come, sooner or later. They were alone in the house. No one could hear them. From across the marble floor of the parlor, Mrs. Hoffman stared at her. Variola stared right back. They were like two cats, glaring at each other in tha
t fraught moment before each pounced.

  “You are getting lax,” Mrs. Hoffman said at last.

  Variola laughed. “Me? You accuse me of being lax?”

  “We can’t have what happened the other day happen again.”

  “That was your failing, not mine.”

  Mrs. Hoffman’s eyes radiated anger, even if the muscles of her face did not move. “You have responsibilities, and you have not been vigilant.”

  “I have done my best to keep doors from opening. I conduct the ritual of enclosure every morning. But it is not I who oversees the locks on the doors.”

  “She is getting stronger.”

  Variola nodded. “Yes, she is.”

  “That unnerves you.”

  “I have done what I can. But at a certain point, you will have to accept that she is not coming back.”

  “I will never accept that,” Hoffman hissed, her anger threatening to explode out of her plastic face. At that very moment, a vase on a shelf fell and shattered to the floor. Neither woman paid any attention to it.

  “I don’t care if you ever accept it. But you will have to accept the fact that responsibilities are shifting in this house, even as we speak.” She smiled. “Your allegiances may have to change.”

  “Never.”

  Variola laughed—that rich, deep, musical sound. “You’ve been afraid of me ever since I came here.”

  “If I was once, I no longer am.”

  “You have learned your lessons well. I will give you that.”

  A tight smile suggested itself on Hoffman’s face. “All but one. Papa Ghede does not bestow power to his followers for use in cruelty or revenge. If that is your motivation, then there will be a price to pay.”

  “I do not follow Papa Ghede,” Hoffman said. “I am not some vodou priestess from the islands.”

  Variola frowned at the insult, and a second vase went flying from the shelf, hurtling across the room before smashing into smithereens on the floor. Once again, neither woman reacted.

  “You brought me here to form a community,” Variola said bitterly. “I was to teach you . . .”

  “You were brought here to teach us, yes, but the coven was ours.”