The Harry Starke Series Books 4 -6: The Harry Starke Series Boxed Set 2 (The Harry Starke Novels - The Boxed Sets)

by Blair Howard

  That’s one mean-looking son of a bitch, and I bet I can guess who he is.

  I nodded at the painting. “That’s him, right? That’s Miles?”

  “Oooh yeah,” Strong said. “That, so I’m told, was painted just after he married his second wife.” He was adding logs to what remained of the fire. The wood immediately began to crackle and burn.

  Amanda was still holding my arm; I felt her grip tighten as she looked up at her great-great-grandfather.

  “Are there any paintings of Elizabeth?” she asked.

  “Yes. Just one. The one over the mantle in the sitting room you looked at earlier. That’s her. Lovely woman; looked a lot like you, when I think about it.”

  “I wonder what happened to her?” she said, more to herself than to us.

  “We’ll never know,” Strong said, pulling out a chair for her.

  Hah, so you say, I thought. I know why. You only have to look at the old bastard to see why she ran away.

  “Now, my Mary,” Strong said, “found a couple of nice steaks. How would you like them cooked?”

  Amanda ordered hers medium rare. I ordered mine rare. They came with grilled asparagus, a baked potato, and home-baked bread.

  “We don’t keep a lot of wine on hand,” Strong said, “but I do have some Sonoma-Cutrer Pinot Noir. Will that work for you?” It would and it did. He served the meal and the wine and left us to it. We were the only guests in the dining room. It was almost like being in church.

  Dinner, considering it was potluck, was… pretty damned good. The wine was excellent, and by nine o’clock we were done with a second bottle.

  “Can I get you something else to drink?”

  Well, by now I was feeling pretty good, although Amanda had a decidedly pale look about her, so I thought about it, looked at her, and said, “Amanda?”

  She thought for a moment and then said, “Do you have any Amontillado?”

  What? Where the hell did that come from?

  I had known Amanda for two years and never once in all that time had she asked for sherry, much less Amontillado.

  “We do. Would you like a glass?” Now that surprised me even more. It’s not the sort of drink anyone keeps on hand, much less at an out-of-the-way place like this one, but what the hell did I know? Anyway, she said she did, and I ordered a double measure of Johnny Walker Black over a single cube of ice. He didn’t have any of the classic malts, much less Laphroaig. Still, I can drink JW at a push.

  “What the hell was that about?” I whispered after he’d gone to fetch the drinks. “What’s with the Amontillado? You been reading Poe?”

  “I don’t know. It just sort of popped into my head. Anyway. I’ve had it before. It’s quite nice.”

  “You have? When?”

  “Oh, long before I met you.”

  “I have to admit, this damned place could have been lifted straight out of one of his stories—Poe’s, I mean. No wonder your grandmother didn’t like it here. Oh, and by the way….” I looked at her. “What was that tune you were humming in the bath?”

  “Harry! You were spying on me!” She smiled shyly as she said it.

  “No I wasn’t.” Yes, I was. “You left the door open. So what was the tune?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t know I was humming.”

  “Well you were, and… yes, I was spying on you. Hell, I almost joined you.”

  “You should have, Harry. We’ve never done that, have we, taken a bath together?”

  “Ah, but you looked so peaceful. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  She smiled at me, dropped her chin, and looked up at through her eyelashes. Her pale green eyes seemed to have a life of their own in the flickering light of the fire.

  “Harry?” She sounded subdued.

  “What?”

  “Harry. I know it sounds silly, and I know I keep repeating it, but I don’t like it here. I don’t feel… comfortable. I want to go home. Now. Tonight.”

  I looked at my watch. 9:15. And outside it was pitch black and raining like the world was about to end.

  “You’re right: that sounds silly. You’re just tired. A good night’s rest and you’ll feel like a new woman.”

  “No. I don’t think so. There’s something about this place. I don’t know what it is, but… I now know exactly why my grandmother didn’t want to come here. It’s… it’s… it’s damned creepy is what it is.”

  It was at that moment that Strong returned with the drinks. I waited until he’d gone, then said, “Now you really are being silly. These old houses are all the same. They creak and groan; they’re cold and damp and drafty, especially ones this old and big, and in this weather too. Sleep on it. You’ll change your mind.”

  “…I’ll sleep on it, Harry, but I won’t change my mind. As soon as we can get things sorted out, I want out of here. Strong has a job for life as far as I’m concerned, or if he doesn’t want it, at least until I sell the place.”

  I just shook my head and sipped my JW. She glared at me, took a huge swallow of Amontillado, and leaned back in her chair. There was a strange light in her eyes, then, one I’d not seen before.

  Thirty minutes later we climbed into bed together. She cuddled up close to me and was asleep before I could even tell her goodnight.

  Chapter 7

  It seemed like I hadn’t been asleep for more than a few minutes when I woke with a start; Amanda was sitting bolt upright beside me, shaking my arm. I looked at the bedside clock. 3:15.

  “Listen,” she hissed in my ear. “Can you hear it?”

  “I can’t hear anything. For Christ’s sake, go back to sleep.”

  “No. Harry. Listen. There’s music.” She gripped my arm so hard her fingernails cut into my flesh. “Can’t you hear it?”

  “Amanda, there’s nothing to hear. You’re imagining things.”

  We listened together. I could hear nothing but the oppressive silence. The rain had stopped, and a full moon shone through the open drapes, casting a soft beam of light into the far corner. The rest of the room lay in shadows. It kind of reminded me of when I was a little kid, lying in bed, staring into the darkened corners where stark, unreal shapes lived—dark phantoms, monsters of the night that held me motionless with the power of their gaze. Damn, I could remember it like it was yesterday, and I remembered being petrified with terror.

  “Harry, I’m not imagining it. Someone’s playing a piano. There. You must be able to hear it…. It’s Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.”

  I shook my head. I couldn’t hear a thing. “Nothing. There’s nothing. Amanda… are you all right?” I’d sat up and was looking at her closely. She looked… I dunno. Uneasy.

  She took a deep breath, and seemed to pull herself together. She lay back on the pillows and stared up into the folds of the canopy hanging over the bed.

  “It’s this place,” she whispered. “There’s something wrong here. I know there is. I had a terrible dream. People running. Dark streets, narrow, gas lamps, and blood, lots of blood. It was horrible. There… there it is again,” She jerked upright and grabbed my arm, and again with the nails. “Harry, for God’s sake. You must be able to hear it.”

  I strained my ears. Not a damn sound. “Amanda. I can’t hear anything. There’s nothing.” What was going on?

  “It’s outside, down the hall. I’m going to see.”

  She pushed back the covers, slipped into the gown she’d thrown over the bedside chair before going to sleep, and then walked to the door. A dim light showed beneath it.

  “Harry. Someone’s out there,” she whispered. “Get up. Come on. Come with me, please.”

  So I did. I was only wearing boxers, so I slipped into my jeans and joined her. She opened the door and looked down the hallway toward the stairs.

  “Look.”

  A soft glow emanated from the half-open door of the sitting room.

  “It’s stopped,” she whispered. “The music. It’s stopped playing. Come on.” She grabbed my hand in a vice-like gr
ip and pulled me out into the hallway.

  Okay, Amanda, I thought. It’s after three in the morning and there are lights on? Maybe you’re not imagining things after all.

  She crept down the hallway, and I followed. I had no choice. She stopped short of the door, holding the gown tightly to her stomach with her left hand and crushing mine with her right. We tried to see into the room, but the door wasn’t open far enough. She took a step forward and gave it a gentle push. It swung open, silently, and together we stepped inside.

  “Oh my god,” she whispered as she looked around. “It’s beautiful.”

  She was right. It was. A single Tiffany-style lamp on the piano bathed the room with soft, pale yellow light. The soft shadows made it even more inviting than before, a place to relax, to read, to be at peace. Suddenly, I felt… at peace? Maybe, but even now I’m not sure. Whatever it was, Amanda obviously wasn’t feeling it. She still hung tightly onto my hand.

  It was then that I noticed that the lid on the piano was up and the seat had been pushed back. I was damned certain they hadn’t been that way when we were in there earlier. Someone had been there, and they’d been playing the piano. So Amanda wasn’t going nuts, but who the hell was it, and where had he or she gone? Okay, a part of me said, but if someone was playing, why didn’t I hear it?

  It was quiet. There was nothing but the soft tick of the clock on the mantelpiece. It was a little after 3:20.

  “Maybe someone was here,” I said. “Strong, do you think?”

  “Probably. Who else?” She glanced up at the painting on the wall above the clock. “Oh my god,” she gasped. “It’s me!” She let go of me and covered her open mouth with both of her hands and stared up at it, wide-eyed.

  Now it was my turn to stare. I took a step forward. “It’s just a trick of the light….” It has to be. “She does look a bit like you, I suppose. She’s not as beautiful, but then, it’s only a painting, and not a very good one at that.” I examined it closely, reached up and ran my fingers over the surface: oil on canvas. “It doesn’t surprise me though. After all, Strong did say she was your great-great-grandmother.”

  “She looks enough like me to be damned creepy, and I don’t like it. I feel like… like someone just walked over my grave. I can’t wait to get out of here.”

  “Come on. Let’s go back to bed. You’ll see things differently in the morning.”

  I turned off the light, took her hand, and led her back to our room. Two minutes later we were back in bed. But I couldn’t get back to sleep. I lay with my hands behind my head staring up into the canopy; Amanda had curled up in the fetal position with her head on my chest. It wasn’t too comfortable, for either of us, but kinda nice just the same.

  The moon shifted slowly across with window from right to left, and with it the moonbeam walked over the bottom half of the bed, which grew lighter and then darker with each scudding cloud. Outside, there must have been a breeze, because the branches of a tree brushed back and forth against the glass. I was beginning to understand how Amanda was feeling. The old house seemed to have a life of its own. Jeez, Harry, I mused. You’ll be believing in ghosts next.

  I laughed to myself. Oh yeah, that’s for sure….

  Chapter 8

  Amanda woke first that next morning. She shook me awake, and I had to squint in the bright light of the sunshine streaming in through the big bay window.

  “What? What time is it?” I asked, shading my eyes.

  “The woman in the painting….”

  “Oh no, Amanda,” I sighed. “Not again. Please?”

  “No, no. You need to listen. She really did look like me, Harry—really like me. I know it sounds crazy, but I can’t help feeling there’s something going on here, something really weird, and it has to do with that sitting room.” She lay back on the pillow.

  “Of course she looks like you, and we know why: she was family. Look. That painting is more than a hundred years old. How the hell could it be you?”

  “Oh my God, I don’t know, do I? But I know I wasn’t dreaming, or imagining it, or whatever else you’re going to say, dammit.”

  “Maybe she does look like you, some. But…. Oh come on,” I said, “let’s go shower. I’m hungry, and I know you are. Maybe you’ll feel better with some food inside you. Coffee. That’s what you need, a big old cup of strong black coffee.” But I could see she was still upset, so I put my arm around her for a minute or so. The fire had gone out sometime during the night, and the air was chilly.

  Fortunately, there was plenty of hot water for the shower, and it had one of those oversized heads; once I stepped in, I didn’t want to come out. By the time I did, Amanda was already dressed. She had on a pair of black jeans, a black T-shirt, and a white leather jacket and black tennis shoes. The contrast of the black and white clothing and her blonde hair was striking. Her makeup was muted: just a hint of blush, pale rose lipstick, a little eyeliner. As always, she looked amazing.

  Me? Hah. I was also wearing black: jeans, T-shirt, leather jacket, and Bruno Magli shoes. It was, so Amanda said, my bad guy look. I couldn’t imagine why. It was just comfortable, is all.

  The hotel dining room downstairs was a depressing room. I really hadn’t noticed it the night before—tired, I suppose. Everything about it was dark: the furniture, the paneling, carpet, and especially that great ugly portrait of the old man.

  Wow. Depressing. What a way to begin the day.

  The only other inhabitants of the dining room were two elderly ladies. They smiled at us when we walked in, but said nothing, and just carried on eating.

  “Good morning,” Strong said. “I hope you had a good night. I set the table by the window for you. The view is amazing.” He grabbed a coffee pot from the sideboard.

  “Our room is beautiful,” Amanda said, “and so is the bed. Thank you.” I smiled to myself. She looked at me and rolled her eyes. Fortunately, Strong had already turned and was leading the way to our table.

  We took our seats on either side of the small table. He was right. The view was spectacular. We were at the front of the house, the cliff top no more than fifty yards away. We could see the driveway snaking away down the rise away to the right. The sun was shining. A light breeze stirred the treetops, and visibility was probably as good as it would ever get: I could see the curve of the earth on the distant horizon.

  He waited until we were comfortably seated, and then poured coffee. He peered out of the window. “It’s a beautiful day. There’s not a cloud in the sky. I hope you both slept well.”

  “Well—”

  “We slept fine,” Amanda interrupted me. “We plan on staying the whole week, if that’s okay with you.”

  I swung around to look at her. Whoa. That’s new.

  “That’s fine with me, of course,” Strong said. “The place belongs to you now. I work for you. You can come and go as you please. Your every request is my command, so to speak,” he said affably. “What would you like for breakfast? We have the usual: bacon, eggs, sausage, toast, waffles, bagels, ham, even oatmeal, if that’s what you’d like, though I can’t imagine why you would. Hate the stuff, myself. So, what do you fancy?”

  Amanda smiled up at him. “I’ll have two eggs, please, scrambled, two strips of bacon, and a lightly toasted bagel.”

  “And for you, sir?”

  “Oh, I’ll have the same, but make my eggs over easy. And keep the coffee coming, please.”

  Strong nodded and left the room.

  “What was that all about, staying a whole week?” I asked. “I thought you’d want to get out of here after last night.”

  “I…” she whispered. “I can’t. I have to get this place sorted. I’m hoping I can get him and his wife to stay on and run the place, but if not, I’ll put it up for sale, or maybe make Duckworthy a counteroffer. I’m certainly not going to stay here. So. You see?” she said with a smile. “You’re not going to get rid of me after all.”

  And thank God for that. I took her hand and squeezed it gentl
y. “I’m glad, but….”

  “No buts, big guy. I hate this place. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to stay here. It’s another world. Hey, did you ever see that movie with Catherine Zeta-Jones, The Haunting? They could have made that one here. It’s… beyond creepy.”

  I had seen the movie. In fact, I’d seen it a couple of times, and she was right, the two old houses did have certain similarities. All ours was missing was the conservatory and the iron spiral staircase. As to it being haunted? She hadn’t said as much, but I knew Amanda well enough to know what she was thinking. Anyway… no. It wasn’t haunted. To think that was to believe in ghosts, and I didn’t. At least not then. Still don’t, damn it.

  I looked at her. She had both hands around her coffee cup, staring vacantly out of the window. She was in one of her thoughtful, pensive moods.

  “What?” she asked, putting her cup down. “Stop staring at me.”

  “Can’t help it. You’re lovely, especially when you’re thinking. You were away with the birds. What’s on your mind?”

  She shook her head. “I was wondering what this place was really worth. A lot more than $2 million, I should think.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But I doubt it. Your grandmother said she tried to sell it and couldn’t. It’s only worth only what you can get for it. If it was in Boston, five or six mill, but here? Maybe Duckworthy’s offer was actually a viable one.”

  “Here we go,” Strong said as he arrived, bearing a large silver tray. “I hope you’re hungry. I took a liberty; there are a couple nice waffles on the side for you.” He put the plates in front of us. Poured more coffee, then turned to leave.