Scared Stiff

by Laura Baumbach, William Maltese, Josh Lanyon

  "You didn't.” I put a hand to my forehead, brought it away. No blood as far as I could tell. That was good, though I could feel a knot rising beneath my cautious fingers. It pulsed, tender to the touch.

  "You're Oliver's little friend.” His eyes were very dark, like black holes in his face.

  I irritably shook off my fancifulness. An elderly man and the safety of Oliver's house within sprinting distance: there was nothing here I couldn't handle. I bent to brush myself off.

  "I don't know if friend is quite the right word,” I glanced up. “I don't know if little is quite the right word. You make me sound like a pet rabbit."

  He chuckled. “Sure you're all right?"

  "Mostly. You're Thaddeus Sterne, aren't you?"

  "Yes.” He did that chuckling thing again.

  I said as though we were standing in C.K.'s gallery, “I'm a great admirer of your work."

  "Are you?” He sounded amused. “Would you like to come back to my house and see some of it?"

  It seemed an odd time for a visit, even if he was one of living legends of the art world. “I should probably be getting back,” I said regretfully.

  "I think you should come with me,” he said gently. “David Berkeley's waiting for you."

  "I ... what?” I jerked upright, interested at how calm I sounded. Calm and a little faint. Which was pretty much how I felt.

  "Look.” He pointed down the road. I stared. There in the bend where the trees dipped low and the shadows were deep I could see—

  No. I didn't see anything but shadows. And Thaddeus Sterne was almost certainly off his rocker.

  But my eyes wouldn't seem to look away, and as I focused I seemed to be able to pick out the tall, faceless figure. A tall man standing silent in the center of the path.

  This was what I had seen the night I arrived. Not Thaddeus Sterne at all. The shade of David Berkeley.

  Ridiculous. I was just reacting to the suggestion...

  "Why would he wait for me?” I asked carefully, unable to tear my gaze away from the umbra in the path.

  "I don't know.” I could feel Thaddeus's gaze on my profile. “You keep returning to the house. Maybe he thinks you're looking for him."

  I was too tired to work this out. And then it occurred to me that I was having a very strange dream. It had to be a dream. I could imagine myself telling Sam about it over dreadful coffee in the morning: I was standing in the woods talking to Thad Sterne about David Berkeley—and David Berkeley was right there listening to us.

  I said to Thaddeus, “I thought it was you following me the other night."

  He said, “You'd better come back with me and let me take a look at that bump on your head."

  Yeah, I had to be dreaming. I was tucked up in bed right now. So it was okay to go along with this—it wasn't for real, and I was curious about how it was all going to work itself out.

  I nodded, keeping one eye on the dark shadows where I thought I'd seen ... Berkeley's specter.

  We didn't take the path, though, Thaddeus pushed right through the bushes and I followed him so there was no need to pass that point in the road where Berkeley waited.

  "It's not far,” he assured me. He moved in long powerful strides once we cleared the shrubbery. I trailed after him.

  We walked until we came to a house that looked like an Arts and Crafts masterpiece: a rambling shingle-style in dark wood with a multitude of brightly lit windows. Thaddeus trudged up the interlocking stone front path and pushed open the unlocked front door.

  "You're not afraid of burglars?” I asked.

  He tittered, holding the door so that I could precede him inside. “No danger of that. What do I have that anyone would want?"

  I stared around at an informal wall-to-wall gallery of paintings, a fortune in Thaddeus Sterne art work. It seemed to me pretty obvious what someone might want, but I let it go. There's no point debating with people in your dreams.

  Thaddeus led the way to a large room that was also lined with paintings. Obviously the rumors were wrong; he hadn't quit painting. He had just quit exhibiting.

  I sank down on the nearest surface: a velvet-covered sofa straight out of a Victorian novel. My head hurt, but mostly I just felt tired and a little woozy. Sterne left me for a few moments and returned with an old-fashioned ice pack. I applied it cautiously to my forehead.

  Disappearing again, he reappeared with a decanter. He poured two cognacs, one of which he handed to me. I said apologetically, “I probably shouldn't after a knock on the head."

  He shrugged, set the glass on the flimsy table next to the sofa, and then dropped down in a giant brocade chair. He leaned forward, frowning beneath the shaggy silver eyebrows.

  "Tell me about Oliver?"

  I shifted the ice pack. “Tell you ... what?"

  "How did he look?"

  "Good. Healthy. Happy."

  He nodded. Stared at his drink. Had that been the wrong answer?

  "Did he say when he was coming home?"

  "Not to me.” I added uncomfortably, “I think he's in Paris now."

  "Yes. He loves Paris.” He tossed back the cognac in his glass. “You must have made quite an impression on him."

  I said honestly, “I think he felt sorry for me. I'd broken up with my boyfriend and ... I wasn't taking it well."

  He stared at me.

  "He can be very kind,” he said at last.

  "He was to me."

  There was a very strange silence. I realized that more than anything I wanted to lie down on this velveteen couch and go to sleep.

  "We grew up together, me and Oliver. We've always been together."

  I guess it was all how you defined “together."

  I searched around for something to say. He obviously was only interested in one topic. “What was he like back then?"

  He said dryly, “Like he is now, only faster on his feet."

  "Did you know Sam when he was a boy?” I heard myself ask—proof that I'd been knocked harder on the noggin than I supposed.

  Sterne smiled, his face unexpectedly relaxed. “Oh yes. He spent all his summers here when he was growing up. Sammy's a sweetheart."

  I made a noncommittal noise. I hadn't seen that side of him yet, but he certainly had the Silver Panther vote.

  Sterne chuckled again. I wished he wouldn't. It raised the hairs on the back of my neck. Then he leaned forward and whispered, “You shouldn't go in the house. It isn't safe. Especially for you, I think."

  I stiffened. “Why especially for me?"

  "Not every door you open is possible to close."

  "That's certainly cryptic."

  He just eyed me in that calm way.

  "Did you ever see...?” I realized it was a foolish question. He had seen whatever I had tonight. The question was what had we seen? How much of it was imagination—or suggestion—and how much of it was bad lighting?

  "Sam said he used to play—” I paused, wondering if “play” was the right word to describe anything Sam might have done.

  "Boys will be boys,” Sterne remarked. He reached for my untouched cognac. “Oliver and I used to prowl through the house when we were lads, too."

  "You know the story about Berkeley killing himself in the library?"

  "Using the guillotine from his act? Oh yes. The guillotine was long gone by then, of course, but you could still see the bloodstains on the floor."

  The ice pack was leaking cold water down the back of my neck. I shuddered, studying Sterne, not sure whether to believe him or not. He smiled maliciously.

  "Or maybe we just hoped that's what those stains were.” He eyed me speculatively.

  I said, “Is there some legend about Berkeley's severed head speaking when he was found?"

  He laughed heartily. “Where did you hear that old horror story?"

  "So there is such a story?"

  "Amor et melle et felle est fecundissmismus."

  "Which means what exactly?” Did everyone in this damn place speak Latin?

/>   "Love is rich with both honey and venom."

  I stared at him. “That can't be true.” Why had Sam lied?

  "Of course not.” His eyes were puzzled. “It's just a story some fool made up. You know the legend of course? Berkeley killed himself when his childhood sweetheart ran off with his best friend."

  "A local painter by the name of Aaron Perry."

  "That's right!” He looked pleased. “Have you seen the portrait?"

  I nodded.

  "It's not bad, is it? Aaron Perry had something. It's a shame none of the rest of his work survived. Berkeley was at the height of his fame when that portrait was painted. Fame being relative. He traveled all over the world: England, Spain, Paris—” his voice was bitter on the word “Paris.” “He performed in music halls and carnivals and circuses. Anywhere he could. He didn't come home for years on end, but I suppose he thought the girl would wait forever. She didn't."

  The silence was definitely awkward.

  "I should probably be getting back,” I said.

  "Do you know the way?"

  "Yes. I think so."

  "Take the road. Don't cut through the woods."

  I didn't answer that. I wasn't sure that he wasn't deliberately trying to spook me—no pun intended.

  Sterne followed me to the front door. “Thank you for visiting,” he said politely. “I don't get much company. Everyone thinks I'm crazy.” He chuckled and closed the door in my face.

  * * * *

  "Shit!"

  Sunday morning, I studied myself with dismay in the steamy bathroom mirror. A colorful bruise marked my brow bone where the tree branch had whacked me the night before. Now how was I supposed to explain that?

  I raked my hair over my forehead. If I didn't mind it in my eyes, it was long enough to cover the special effects. I just had to remember not to move my head around too much. I sighed and reached for my shaving cream brush. Not so pretty a boy this morning.

  Lathering my face, I considered last night's adventures. If I didn't have the bruises to prove it, I'd have wondered if I'd dreamed the entire evening. As it was, the events had an Alice in Wonderland quality to them. Or maybe I was thinking of the Jabberwocky. I'd definitely experienced a sinister moment or two in that house. Probably my own overactive imagination, but I couldn't wait to get hold of the video camera and see what might have been captured on tape.

  "What the hell happened to you?” Sam asked, looking up out of the paper when I wondered into the kitchen a short time later.

  So much for my hair disguising the damage. I walked over to the coffee maker. This morning Sam appeared to be boiling tar in it. Perhaps he planned on working on the roof.

  "I—er—went for a walk last night and banged into a tree.” I replied, wondering if Thaddeus would confirm my story or whether he'd come up with his own version, which was liable to include details about me climbing out of Berkeley House at three o'clock in the morning.

  "A walk in the woods?"

  "It's true, believe it or not."

  To my alarm he tossed the paper aside and got up, coming over to examine me. I flinched as he raised his hand—and he halted mid-reach. Just for an instant hurt flared in his eyes. “Rhys—"

  I had a sudden understanding of how often people reacted to his size and rough-hewn looks, without giving him an opportunity to be anything else. That wasn't my problem, but how could he know that?

  "Really, Sam, it's okay,” I said awkwardly.

  He brushed the hair off my forehead. I went stiffer than a plank of wood, feeling that gentle touch in every cell of my body. I swallowed nervously, my throat making a little squeaky sound.

  "That shade of purple just about matches your eyes,” he said with wry humor.

  I smiled weakly. It felt funny having to look up into his eyes—funnier still was the expression in them. I couldn't make it out but just for a second I thought he was about to...

  Actually, I don't know what I thought.

  "There's coffee,” he said laconically, lowering his hand and moving back to the table.

  "Is that what that is?” No wonder he was such a grim guy if he started every morning out with a dose of molten lava.

  "I ground the beans myself."

  "They have a machine for that, you know."

  He grinned a wolfish grin. “I waited for you as long as I could."

  Oddly, I remembered Thaddeus saying that Berkeley had assumed his sweetheart would wait forever. Which reminded me.

  "I ran into Thaddeus Sterne last night."

  His face changed, the friendliness draining out of it. I said defensively, “I wasn't looking for him. Why would I? He stepped out of the trees and startled me. That's how I got this.” I pointed at my forehead.

  After a moment he relaxed and nodded. I felt a flicker of guilt. And unease. Maybe I should have shut up about Sterne; now it was sure to come up between them as a topic of conversation.

  "How was he?” he inquired.

  "I think he misses Oliver. A lot."

  "Yeah.” He sighed. He didn't seem like the type to waste time sighing over what couldn't be changed, but that was the impression I had. Then he jerked his thumb back at the stove. “I fried up some Spam and eggs, if you're hungry."

  "No you didn't,” I said.

  He looked puzzled. “Yeah, I did."

  "Spam? Nobody eats Spam."

  "I got news for you. Spam is delicious and nutritious."

  "I'll give you delicious. No, actually, I can't in good conscience give you either of those."

  "Suit yourself,” Sam said. “There's probably a stale box of oatmeal somewhere."

  I raised the lid on the frying pan and the warm, salty smell of fried eggs and ham hit my salivary glands. I hadn't realized quite how hungry I was.

  "Well, I guess I have to eat something,” I conceded, reaching for a clean plate.

  "You do eat a lot for such a little guy."

  "'Little guy?’ Excuse me, King Kong, but I'm nearly six feet.” His eyes flickered at the King Kong crack, but then he laughed.

  "Better keep your strength up then, Cheetah. Especially if you're going to be taking many moonlight strolls.” It was suddenly hard to avoid his gaze. “What brought on that sudden desire for fresh air, by the way?"

  I could come clean right now. I could tell Sam everything that had happened—or at least everything I had dreamed. But if I told him, I knew without a doubt he'd have my equipment out of Berkeley House and me packed and on my way back to Los Angeles before my Spam and eggs were cold. That's what I told myself, anyway, but what I really shied away from was risking this jokey almost companionable truce between us.

  "I wanted to see if I could catch another glimpse of those lights over at Berkeley House."

  He was silent. I kept my eyes pinned on my plate while I shoveled in eggs, waiting for him to press it. I tried to decide if lying by omission was as bad as lying straight to his face—and whether I had it in me to lie straight to his face in any case. I wasn't sure I could anymore.

  So it was a relief—and a surprise—when he all he said was, “Did you see the lights?"

  "No."

  He nodded, and then went back to his newspaper.

  After my delicious and nutritious breakfast, I went out to the pool to have a heart attack and read over my notes in peace.

  Not that Sam was disturbing me, except that somehow his presence was harder and harder to put out of my mind. In fact, I was astonished to realize that I hadn't given C.K. a single thought in almost twenty-four hours.

  It was warm and sunny by the pool; summer wasn't far off now, and the events of the night before felt more and more distant and unreal. I turned my laptop on, working while the pool water lapped soothingly against the filter and the sun moved lazily across the bricks.

  As I tapped and clicked, I began to wonder about Aaron Perry and Charity Keith. Their story seemed to stop with the event of their running off together; no source ever mentioned them after the elopement. Of course, I
had never thought to ask anyone about them before...

  I plugged “Charity Keith” into Google, but came up with nothing. “Aaron Perry” brought up musicians, actors and basketball players—none of whom fit the profile. There was quite a bit of information on David Berkeley—a lot it totally inaccurate—and there were several mentions of the runaway lovers, but nothing about what had become of them.

  Nothing about the talking head either, for what that was worth. I was pretty sure Sam had brought that up to freak me out, and then for some reason changed his mind and turned it into that silly joke.

  Had the eloping couple never returned to their hometown? A little drastic, surely? Or was public opinion so strongly in favor of Berkeley that they had decided they needed a fresh start?

  Or had they feared some reprisal from Berkeley?

  I thought about this for a moment, eyes narrowed against the sunlight dancing on the water. I wasn't sure why that idea had come to me; perhaps it was the unsettled feeling I had about Berkeley's—alleged—specter. If it hadn't been Thaddeus Sterne in the woods that first night ... if it really had been the shade of David Berkeley ... then there was no denying the sense of threat I'd had.

  But maybe the Perrys had returned. Maybe no one mentioned them because David Berkeley was the star of that show, and what interest was there in a couple of ordinary newlyweds settling down to run-of-the-mill domestic bliss?

  Why had none of Aaron Perry's other paintings survived if he had continued to live and work in Ventisca?

  Maybe they weren't any good? Maybe they had survived but no one recognized them as Perry's since he wasn't a famous artist? Maybe he had stopped painting and got a day job. The absence of other paintings didn't prove the Perrys hadn't returned to Ventisca; it was just interesting, that was all.

  I could check out the local graveyard. Maybe check church records?

  A shadow fell across the lounge chair. I glanced up.

  "Feel like taking a break?” Sam asked.

  "What's up?"

  He said very casually, “I was thinking of going into town for lunch. Want to come?"

  I did—how much startled me—but as I opened my mouth to say yes, I realized I would lose a much-needed opportunity to slip over to Berkeley House and change the video tapes, resetting them for the night. I might not get another chance. Besides, I needed to hear whether the ghostly guillotine sounds had been in my imagination or had actually been recorded.