Ernie realized that Andrea was looking at him rather intently, so he paused for a moment, hoping to give her the chance to speak.
She did not disappoint him. “Wasn’t there another, earlier mansion—I mean a different one from the house that burned?”
Ernie sensed that Andrea already knew the answer to her question, but she was giving him the opportunity to impress the others with his knowledge, to have center stage for a change. He’d lost the limelight earlier as soon as the others had realized he really hadn’t known what had happened to Emily. “Yes, you’re right,” he said. “The original house was built in 1650 and was completely destroyed by a fire about a hundred years later. It seems that the people who had owned it were dispossessed and took revenge on the new owners—a minister and his wife—by burning their house down. While they were in it.”
Cynthia gulped. “Pleasant people.”
“Then the island came into the hands of Burrows, who later became the infamous mass murderer of Lammerty Island. He built a new mansion in a different spot. I suppose we can all traipse over and take a look at what’s left of it tomorrow.”
Ernie was about to continue with his history lesson, enjoying the luxury of being able to bask in everyone’s undivided attention, when the kitchen door swung open an an agitated-looking John Everson came wandering out. All eyes turned toward him. “I’m afraid, my friends, that the rest of dinner will be delayed while Mrs. Plushing masters the operation of our antediluvian stove. It seems Lynn’s aunt was an eccentric who liked the quaint old kitchen equipment and decided to leave it just the way it was.”
“I’m glad she wasn’t too eccentric,” Gloria chortled, “or we’d all wind up squatting in the woods.”
John smiled for the first time that evening. “No, luckily Mrs. Hornbee saw fit to install modern bathrooms, electric lights, and many other luxuries from our decadent society. Mrs. Plushing simply miscalculated the time it would take for her roast to cook. We might as well stay here and enjoy some more salad—perhaps have another drink some of us, hmmm—and in twenty minutes or so we can resume our dinner. Let me assure you that Mrs. Plushing’s cooking is well worth the wait.” Everson sat down with a flourish. His spirits seemed to have revived.
“Her red cabbage was certainly tasty,” Gloria said, “although I’m not quite sure why she brought it out if her pot roast wasn’t done.”
Cynthia had a ready answer. “She probably figured she’d better serve the meal in stages before we started eating one another!”
“This island ever have any cannibals?” Jerry asked Ernest in a stage whisper. “I don’t think so,” Ernie answered, smiling and shaking his head.
“Actually, Gloria,” Mr. Everson replied, “Margaret had assumed when she started bringing out the side dishes that her roast beef was done. She didn’t realize that on those old stoves it takes much longer to cook something than it would on a modern apparatus.”
Margaret came out at that moment, a harried expression on her face, a big bowl of extra salad in her hands. “Here, this should tide you over for awhile. I’m so sorry.” She looked at Mr. Everson. “Eric and Hans and Joanne are in the kitchen with their tongues hanging out.” Then to the others: “Joanne will be here in a moment with the rolls. I’ll bring in the wine. Eric will be out to make your drinks in a minute.” She bent down near Everson and whispered, “I told him he had better wash up and change first if he’s gonna come out here with you people.”
Everson stood and held up his hand. “Tell Eric to relax. He’s a chauffeur, not a bartender.”
“As long as he’s got nothing to do on this island, he might as well make himself useful.”
“Oh he will, don’t worry. In the meantime, I’ll make the drinks. Orders, please.”
Everson busied himself over at a table in the corner where glasses and assorted liquor bottles had been placed. Everyone was so hungry that the conversation automatically turned to food. Ernest sensed that no one was interested any more in hearing about the island’s history, so he sat back, nibbled his lettuce, and studied the others.
There was no doubt that for him the most intriguing personality was Andrea Peters. She was, like him, comparatively quiet, but not as painfully or awkwardly shy as Betty Sanders— that was something he did not like in a woman, or anyone else for that matter. Neither was Andrea the natural charismatic performer that Cynthia was, and for that he was also grateful. The soap-opera actress, while amusing and likable, was so intense and energetic, always “on camera,” that she made Ernie rather nervous. Anton’s droll delivery could become tiresome after awhile, and Ernie really had nothing in common with either Gloria or Jerry, and sensed the feeling was mutual. He hardly knew Lynn—and from her abrupt departure it was a certainty that he would not have the opportunity to get to know her better tonight. About his cousin John he knew all he ever needed or would want to know.
So if there were anyone whose attention he should court throughout this weekend, it was Andrea Peters. The psychic business he found a trifle distressing, but as long as she wasn’t a bore about it, he wouldn’t complain.
He was most impressed with Andrea’s subtle, natural quality. She was not exactly centerfold material, but there was an innocence about her, a feeling that she was not quite aware of how attractive she could be to certain men. Her looks were so pure and lovely and compelling that in the right light she was practically beautiful. Her hair was blond with an attractive glimmer and natural highlights, and fell down onto her shoulders in full, wavy tresses. She didn’t appear to be using much makeup, but it wasn’t always easy to tell. If she did wear any, she used it sparingly and with considerable skill. Her eyes seemed bright and large and brown and were probably touched up a bit—understandable, as they were her best features and she would want to emphasize them. Her nose was small, dainty. Her mouth was also small, but her lips turned up charmingly even when she sat in mild repose. She had a wonderful smile. Her teeth were a bit too large, but not unpleasantly so, and Ernie imagined that under the guidance of the right make up artist she could have modeled—though she wasn’t the usual bony, hollow-cheeked, half-starving type they seemed to go for. She was pretty. And he was interested. Now if only the feeling was mutual …
“Here we are!”
And Mrs. Plushing, her face beaming, came out with the roast—a big, delicious-looking hunk of tasty meat on a heavy blue platter. Soaking in its natural juices, the meat was rare and red and bloody. Ernie did not much care for meat, and hated rare meat most of all.
To him, it looked for all the world like a tiny human torso.
Chapter 9
An hour later they were sitting in the living room having after-dinner drinks and coffee. The dinner had been scrumptious and more than satisfying. Mrs. Plushing accepted compliments with an amusing mixture of pride and humility, then went to check on Emily, who was, she reported, “sleeping like a log.” She and the other servants ate their share of the supper at the kitchen table, then retired to their chambers or went for walks. “Stay close to the house,” Everson warned. “It’s dark outside and we don’t want anyone getting lost.”
Everson sat in the large, comfortable chair by the fireplace, a snifter of brandy in his hand, and urged Ernie to regale the others with morbid tales of the island’s grisly background. Ernie sat on the piano bench, holding a cup of tea in one hand and balancing a plate of cookies on his knee. Gloria, Jerry, and Anton sat on the sofa near the front window, sampling assorted liquers. Cynthia and Andrea were on opposite sides of the sofa, in small matching chairs with gray patterned upholstery and broad wooden legs. Betty Sanders sat alone on an ottoman next to a bookcase in the corner, sipping her black coffee and looking wide-eyed and lonely.
Ernie felt annoyed that Everson had put him on the spot; most of the people in the room knew all about the island’s history already, especially its bloodier moments. He recited some of the less familiar details, addressing his words to those who seemed most interested. Andrea looked as if she
were trying to become absorbed in what he said, but she kept fidgeting, rubbing her eyes. She was either very tired, uncomfortable with the whole subject, or—God help him—getting “negative vibes.” Cynthia and Jerry were giving one another surreptitious glances. If Gloria were aware of their interest in one another, she was keeping it to herself. Her eyes never strayed from Ernie’s face for a second—it was as if there were nothing else on her mind than hearing each and every word of what he had to say. Betty also gave him her undivided attention, and he blessed her silently. It would have been so easy for her to drift off and stare elsewhere, letting the others carry the burden. Even Gloria might have only been paying attention to him to spare herself the humiliation of letting the others know that she was aware her lover was flirting with another, younger woman. Anton was polite enough to look up now and then and pretend he was listening, but it was clear that his mind was miles away.
And Everson, who had started it all, was staring into space—oblivious to Ernie, his guests, and just about everything else.
The worst thing was that no one interrupted Ernest with questions or flip remarks the way they had at the dinner table—it was as if he were giving a lecture. Those that were bothering to listen looked so serious, too. Any minute he expected one of them to raise a hand and ask if he or she could go to the bathroom. He paused a few times, hoping someone would speak up or change the subject, but instead everyone just sat there staring, waiting for him to resume.
So he told them how the island had been claimed by Charles Lammerty in 1625, who returned to England after selling it to Ezekial Pauling. Pauling then built the original mansion for his daughter and son-in-law, both of whom were killed during the Indian Wars. He reminded them that Edmund Burrows’s victims had been killed in different places all over the island, including the very room they were sitting in. And he talked about Winthrop North III, who had owned the island before Lynn’s aunt, and who had killed himself by jumping onto the rocks and smashing his body to pieces.
Finally Ernie stopped, got up, and said pleasantly, “I don’t really think we’re in the mood for a history lesson, are we? I know I’m not. I’m going to get myself a drink.” He smiled at everyone, then headed towards the dining room and that wonderful table of liquor. A nice strong scotch on the rocks would go perfectly just now.
Gloria let out a yawn so huge, long, and loud that it was almost vulgar. Ernie chuckled.
As he stood making his drink, he heard some scattered conversation begin in the living room. Good. He was plunking ice into the glass when Andrea came up to him, holding an empty goblet. Even better.
“Felt like you were in front of a classroom, didn’t you?” she said. He smiled and nodded, and she gave him an understanding grin. “Make me a gin and tonic, will you?”
He grabbed another glass and looked around for the gin. She was giving him the opportunity to get to know her better, to make suave, sophisticated small talk, and he was blowing it. She could have made her own drink, let him walk back into the living room alone; instead she had given him an excuse to stay for awhile and chat. So chat, he told himself. But as he picked up the gin and poured two ounces into her glass, absolutely nothing came to mind except for “there we go.” Suave, sophisticated small talk was simply not his strong point. “Do you like a lot of ice?” he asked. “Or just a little bit?”
“Lots,” Andrea said. “I like my drinks good and cold.”
“Me, too.” He grabbed up some ice cubes with the handy metal tongs and dropped a few into her gin and tonic. Why not pursue the topic she had already opened, his impromptu “lecture”? he asked himself. Handing her the drink, he said, “I’m afraid I’m not the greatest public speaker. John sort of roped me into giving that history lesson back there. I think most of us know all there is to know about the island anyway.”
“You’re probably the resident expert,” Andrea replied. “The rest of us seem to know Lammerty Island for its occult legends and old-wives’ tales rather than for its place in history. Oh sure, everyone knows about the murders, the deaths and shipwrecks. But I think you have a better, larger perspective of things. Sometime I’d like to find out more about this place from you.”
“Thanks. Anytime you’re interested. Just let me know.”
“Relax. I won’t ask for any more history lessons tonight.”
“Okay.” He thought that he really wouldn’t have minded giving Andrea private tutoring that night or any other.
Andrea sipped her drink and complimented him. “Good and icy.” She picked up a cocktail napkin from the table and put it under the glass. “Actually most of our little group think of Lammerty Island as just a good place to put up a vacation resort. Do you think that would be a good idea?”
“It might be the only way Lynn would ever make any money out of it.”
“Lots of people would come out of curiosity. More than would be frightened away, don’t you think?”
“No question about it. People are titillated by stories of ghosts and monsters, but they never really think they’d actually meet up with one. Here—or anywhere else for that matter.”
Andrea chuckled. “I suppose you’re right.” Her eyes lit up and she said, “You know what I’d really like to see as long as we’re here?”
“What’s that?”
“The remains of that ship, the Mary Eliza. I’ve always had a fascination with ghost ships. How about you?”
“I could do without the ghosts, but I’ve always been a frustrated sailor at heart. I’d like to see that ship myself. In fact, that’s one of the great mysteries of Lammerty Island. How the remains of the Mary Eliza have stayed intact—comparatively speaking—for all these decades. Especially when you consider the harsh weather and the frequent storms in this area. Of course, maybe it’s all been exaggerated. We may go out there and find nothing left but a few splinters.”
Andrea’s eyes were so bright one could almost see the lightbulb over her head. “Why don’t we take a walk out there and see if we can find it! Really! It’s not too dark out. There’s a full moon tonight anyway. We can get a couple of flashlights, take a look around.”
“Remember what John said.” He mimicked the lawyer’s voice. ” ‘Stay close to the house.’ We wouldn’t want to become the object of a search party.”
Andrea was not to be put off so easily. “Well, what are we supposed to do all night? It’s too early to go to bed, and frankly I think we’re all getting bored with each other’s company.” Ernie smirked, then laughed in agreement. “As long as there’s no quicksand and we stay near the shore, there shouldn’t be any problem. We’re not going to go into the woods or anything like that. We’ll stick straight to the shoreline and come right back if we don’t find anything.” She thought for a moment, then added, “Or even if we do.”
“Sounds good to me,” Ernie said. “Let me just finish my drink—”
“Do you think we should ask the others?”
“Do you want to?” Ernie hoped the answer was no.
“It would be the polite thing to do.”
Ernie nodded, not bothering to keep the disappointment off his face. “Let’s be polite then.”
They went back into the living room and told the rest of the party about their plans. No one seemed particularly enthused. John renewed his warning, but didn’t try to deter them. Gloria was tired; therefore, so was Jerry. Betty looked as if she might want to go, but sensed that three would definitely be a crowd, especially since no one else was interested. Anton muttered something about “wanting to read” and getting a “proper view” of the island during the daytime. And Cynthia, though she mulled it over in her mind for a minute, ultimately decided against joining them.
They got a flashlight from Everson and set out to explore the vast darkness of Lammerty Island.
PART TWO
Reverberations
Chapter 10
Everson stayed with his guests for about half an hour longer, making chitchat and pouring drinks. Everyone seemed
a little tired; he most of all. Andrea and his cousin hadn’t fooled anyone with their talk of looking over the shoreline for the wreck of the Mary Eliza, He recognized “young love,” or at least “young sexual attraction,” when he saw it. Perhaps his cool, quiet cousin was a firebrand underneath, and he and the lovely psychic were already making love under the stars. Or perhaps they were just walking along, talking about this or that, skirting the issue that really mattered, their interest in each other.
Everson sighed, rose from his chair, and yawned. He excused himself, admitting that he really felt like bed and must forego his duties as host for the remainder of the evening. He had been putting off his confrontation with Lynn, but was as anxious as he imagined everyone else must be for things between him and her to mend before it put a damper on the rest of the weekend.
“I hope Lynn will be feeling better tomorrow,” Gloria said in that spirited way of hers. She was obviously feeling “no pain.” Her bland boyfriend sat at her side conversing with Cynthia, who sat in a chair across from him. Gloria seemed like a third wheel, determined to drink her way into oblivion—the oblivion meant for older people like her and himself, Everson thought ruefully. People who dared to love those much younger than themselves. Now, now, he told himself, quelch the bitterness before it festers. Bitterness is so unbecoming. An unfit emotion for a gentleman of his stature.
He said good night to the others, then made his way up the stairs to his bedroom. I should have asked Gloria to go for a walk, he thought. I don’t think I interest her physically any more than she interests me, but at least we would have had a lot to talk about. How did she deal with it? he wondered. Having a young lover, the insecurity of it all? How did she deal with Jerry’s probable infidelities?
Late at Night Page 5